


No Rain, No Roses

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Confident Isak Valtersen, Domestic Fluff, Established Nooreva, Evakteket Challenge, Evakteket Summer Challenge, GuitarPlayer!Even, Julian Dahl is an old man for like 2 seconds?, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, POV Even Bech Næsheim, Pining, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Song Lyrics, descriptions of food, drinking espresso!, here i am writing about art again, italian things!, medicated bipolar disorder, only tagging that because #feelings, riding a vespa!, set in Italy, this is kind of an ode to 90s rock, young professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Science brains and art brains were meant to fall in love.Or: Isak and Even restore a house together and make it a home.





	No Rain, No Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imminentinertia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imminentinertia/gifts).



> Hello!! This is for Immy!! She gave me the concept and for some reason trusted me enough to write it. Hope you like it, love. This whole concept spiraled out of control in I think a good way?
> 
> Prompts are city break, summer storm, and bare feet.
> 
> I had to do _a lot_ of research for this fic and I would like to say in advance that if I got something wrong, I’m sorry. If you happen to be super well versed in the art of painting restoration, pest control, solvents, microemulsions, obscure small towns in Italy, home restoration, museum management hierarchy…
> 
> I’m probably turning you all away from this fic, aren’t I?
> 
> This is un-betaed because I suck.
> 
>  
> 
> [Also here's a playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/14XkmvqN7kaMUTHKNbSKxG?si=9MBfrxywS9CV0_uug26sSQ)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy. ❤️

Disappointedly—with his backpack slung over one shoulder, 3B pencil tucked behind his ear, sketchbook situated under one arm filled with rough charcoal studies and oil pastel sketches (literally everything about his presence just screaming _hey, I’m an art student)_ —Even stares at the small plaque on the wall.

> _The Scream_  
>  Edvard Munch  
>  1893  
>  Oil, tempera, pastel and crayon on cardboard 
> 
> _Temporarily off display to be restored._

“Excuse me?” Even manages to catch the security staff walking by. She turns her head politely, stopping with a plastic smile on her face. Even knows she’s probably been asked this question a million times today. “What does this mean?” He points to the plaque hanging in the dead space, dramatically a spot darker than the rest of the wall as if to mock him. “Did something happen to it?”

She scoffs, but at the empty spot on the wall. “It’s a little misleading. Makes you think it was ruined, right?” She tips her head when Even shrugs. “It’s not being restored, per say. More like… conserved.” She takes her time to pick the right word. “Every once in awhile certain pieces just need a little checkup. Just to slow down the aging process and keep them in tip top shape. If the conservator is doing their job properly, they’re practically invisible.”

 

•

 

After grueling semesters too far away from home at Konstfack and hours upon hours merely observing during his fellowship, it’s the most sobering advice Even’s gotten, still four years later.

Bright lamps and easels covered in sheets. Glass cupboards lined with paint pots and ageing pigment boxes. Jars of gooey liquids that wouldn’t look too out of place in an apothecary and paint brushes alongside surgical instruments. It’s a lab and a studio all in one, and to the untrained eye, one might assume artwork surgery goes on in here—and one wouldn’t be too far off to assume that, actually. 

Even puts on his magnifying glasses and tries to be as invisible as possible while his whole vision floods with cracking color. 

And it also rings the most true, because invisible is precisely how he’s been feeling since he moved back to Oslo to work at the National Gallery, in the very same building he heard that advice. 

Since getting diagnosed, Even’s felt microscopic, like a big life isn’t meant for him anymore. Not that anyone’s told him that directly, but it’s not hard to read between the lines when the doctor spews medical jargon like a line in a play, writing the prescription that he’ll have to take for the rest of his life as if it’s just another day on the job. _Therapy is a must. You’ll need to practice an exceptional sleep schedule. No more drinking alcohol or recreational drugs of any kind. You may experience weight gain, sexual problems, stomach pains, skin reactions. Despite stability in mood, no matter how good you feel, don’t stop taking your medication without consultation—_

“Even?”

He pulls one headphone out, _The Colour and The Shape_ on its third loop trying to drown out his thoughts as he flips his glasses up to rest them on his forehead—eyes adjusting from macro to micro—pushing his grown out hair back wildly in all directions and making him look half crazy scientist, half mad artist. Which is really quite fitting, honestly.

Even turns to find Sonja, the museum director (and his on-again, currently off-again friend with benefits), looking at him with an unmistakable, unspoken favor on the tip of her tongue.

“I need your help.”

 

•

 

A plane. A train. A bus. A cab. And ultimately, a long walk.

Even swears the temperature rises a degree with every kilometer south from Oslo to Florence, one backpack and his guitar weighing him down in hot August, sauna-like conditions. This isn’t the first time he’s traveled for work, but it’s the first time he’s traveled this far.

In the middle of what some might call the historical art capital of Europe, one might ask _why_ they need Even’s help, a fresh art conservator from Oslo. But he’ll soon find out.

“Noora, the curator from the Uffizi Gallery, can’t meet you tonight, but she told the contractor who left last week to leave the door unlocked, so you should be able to get in,” Sonja’s voice comes in staticky on the other end while Even ambles up the hill to the villa the cab driver apparently couldn’t (or didn’t want to) drive to, it’s modest yet grand Renaissance-style façade in the distance. It’s clearly overgrown with ivy and shrubs that have reached the size of the cypress trees on the perimeter of the property. “There should be a bedroom towards the front of the house that’s roughly finished he was staying in, so she said to feel free and claim it, as the rest of the interior is still pretty much a shell. There’s electricity and running water now, though. Tomorrow she’ll come with your equipment, but tonight, could you take pictures of the fresco and send them to me? There’s several in the foyer. Please make sure they’re composed well, I want them for before and afters. And Even—”

Even’s backtracked on the dirt trail that’s hardly visible anymore, the lines that separate it from the grass spotted with weeds and fallen branches. The farther he goes, the more distant Sonja’s voice gets before it starts to fade away completely, the signal lost as he gets closer to the middle of nowhere.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks again for doing this. I know frescoes can be a pain in the ass, but it’s rare a private collector will shell out this much money for restoration, so I kind of just agreed on your behalf because of the opportunity.”

It’s hard to be disappointed with her sincerity, and god knows the gallery could use some more money. “Happy to,” he mostly means before hanging up.

They need it done by the end of the summer, which sounds a lot longer away than a month, but that’s the supposed timeline. Even holds his breath while he twists and pulls the knob of the the tall, double doors of the villa, relieved when the bolt snaps with an ancient creak so he can tug it open. It’s surprisingly cool on the inside—he thanks the blue and white _a cammino_ tiled floor and the ground to ceiling, arch-topped windows visible in the entertaining room blocked with foliage from the backyard. It smells like fresh paint and sawed wood—tarps hanging from the ceiling, ladders still open and waiting by the walls.

So he doesn’t have to backtrack, because all he really wants to do is go to sleep, Even pulls out his phone and snaps some shots of the foyer, where detailed frescoes of a garden scene and columns—as if to mimic ancient architecture—line the barreled ceiling and spill down the pale yellow walls. Laurel leaves and olive branches and bushes upon bushes of red roses. They’re not in bad shape, but certainly dull. A good cleaning should do the trick.

He passes what he assumes was the maid’s room—now his bedroom—after the foyer on the east side of the villa, floor adorned with the same tile pattern. A full-sized bed on a black, sad metal frame with an equally sad metal dresser and an even sadder metal lamp is pushed against the wall. A wooden chair lies in the corner, and he dumps his backpack on it, feeling a cathartic burn in his shoulders when the weight is gone. He rests his guitar case gently on the bed. The single, wall-wide window is beautiful, leaking in pale evening light—but with no curtains he can already imagine the hot sunburn through when it rises to wake him.

The kitchen looks good—mostly done, although bare. There’s a freezer that looks new but no fridge, a deep marble sink that appears to be original to the house, one pot, one pan, a handful of mismatched cutlery but no plates or bowls, one dusty wine glass, one ceramic mug, and a moka pot. The stove is gas burning and needs a lighter to start. Luckily, Even bought one at the airport when he landed along with an overpriced pack of cigarettes—the only vice it seems he’s allowed.

The rest of the main floor is much the same—mostly done but rather bare. The ceilings are high and match with decorative coffering, embossed along the edges with crown molding. The tile remains consistent, and so do the pale yellow walls. The doors are immense—almost reaching the ceiling—and ornate, a family crest Even doesn’t recognize at the top of each one.

Upstairs needs a little more work, partly because it’s more detailed. Plastic sheets edge the floors and walls where there is some dilapidation. There’s a library (or, what he assumes is a library—bare of books), the master bedroom with a balcony, and a bathroom with mechanisms that look like they could use a good cleaning. A marble sink. A porcelain clawfoot tub. He turns the water on and it sadly drips down the side. He’d have to leave it on all day to fill it up. 

Back downstairs, Even drafts an email on his phone to Sonja with the image attachments and fails to send it seven times. Before giving in to his last and only hope—a long trek down the hill to the last place he had reception—he tries one more time, arm held high by the window in his bedroom like that’ll do any good. He feels his phone get hot in his hand, as if longing for death, but ultimately it goes through.

So a delicate timeline. Hot and sticky weather. A villa in the middle of nowhere. No wifi and barely any cell service, and it becomes clear why they need young blood from up north to do the project. Because fuck all if someone else is going to, and now Even wonders _just how much_ money they offered Sonja—if it was a price another director might snub their nose at.

Stomach rumbling, Even digs through his backpack to find the last half of a squashed sandwich from the airport. But it’s not enough, and there’s nothing else, so he’ll have to settle for a cigarette. 

He wanders slowly through the kitchen towards the back door, checking the cabinets on the way to see if the contractor left anything. But no luck. The passageway is small, probably for the maid, but the doors in the entertaining room that lead out back are blocked with vegetation. 

Which Even soon learns is an overgrown vineyard. Grape vines that were once in neat rows now grow wild over the decaying arbors. They expand far out and grow right up to the cement patio he’s standing on, leaning against the door. He lights his cigarette and swats at the bugs flying about his face, which soon leave him alone because of the smoke. To his left is a rusted, black, garden-style table filled in with a filigree pattern of twisted metal. There are some melted candles in the middle—a thick pool of wax on the cement below them—someone was too lazy to put dishes under. Two matching black metal chairs sit next to it, one on its side. To his right is an outdoor shower, unobstructed by any sort of gate or covering. Not that anyone lives so far out here to see. 

He finishes his cigarette and uses his lighter to light the candles. Strips his clothes and throws them over the chair. The shower hisses on like it hasn’t been used in decades; the water doesn’t get warm.

He wouldn’t have taken a warm one anyway—he thinks this will be his only way to escape the heat. 

Naked under the spray of the water, washing away the day, he should feel a little on edge so vulnerable out in the open.

But he’s never felt more invisible. 

 

•

 

Even was right about the sun. It streams through his window when it rises at just before six in the morning, making his room a sweltering greenhouse. 

He wakes up and heads west through the house to the backyard, still shady and dewy where the tall villa blocks the sun. He smokes. Fills the one lonely wine glass with water from the shower. Takes his meds, which he put in the drawer by the sink when he arrived. (A little ritual he brought from home so he’d always remember when he makes coffee in the morning.) Picks a few grapes from the vine. They are tart but fleshy, and while not totally sure if they’re safe for eating—the vines mutating without care for what looks like years on end—it’s a risk he’s willing to take. He just has to wait for Noora to show up before he can ask her the best way to head to town. 

He wishes Sonja gave him a timeframe for her arrival, but he gets dressed anyway despite the desire to stay as naked as possible at the risk of being caught shirtless and unprofessional. 

And good thing he did, because as soon as the old, soft hem of his t-shirt meets the button of his shorts, he hears a motor outside. Peeking through the window, he sees a tall, blonde woman shut off the engine to a newer, small silver Fiat; behind her, an old, dusty black Vespa pulls up, cherry hair spilling from the matching black helmet of the driver. She parks it and shoves the kickstand down with her foot, rounding the side to open the hatchback of the car.

To Even’s surprise, they exchange a small kiss before hoisting boxes up on their hips, leaving the doors of the car open as they make the long trek up the hill.

Even goes out to meet them, jogging with his long strides to relieve some of the weight.

“You must be Even,” the blonde says in English. She wrinkles her nose cutely as she hands over a box, and they both use their free hands to shake. “Noora. And this is my wife, Eva.”

“Yes,” Even nods. He smiles over at Eva, who doesn’t have a free hand to shake. She beams back, red lips from Noora’s lipstick matching her red hair. “So you’re the curator?” He looks back at Noora.

“Yeah,” she clicks her tongue, taking a step to indicate they should move towards the villa. “At Uffizi. Sonja called and asked if you could borrow some of our stuff, seeing as it’s expensive to fly over.”

“Well, thank you,” Even nods, one of his long-legged steps two of Noora and Eva’s. “The frescoes look pretty good, actually. Who exactly is buying…?” He trails.

“Well,” Noora sighs. “This villa was kind of… rediscovered, you might say, last year by a man looking through some family records. Apparently it’s been passed down generation to generation for almost one-hundred years, but the inheritance kind of… fizzled out. The last owner was a sour old woman who drove her family away, leaving no one to claim it after she died. Poor thing, she laid dead in the house for almost a month.”

“She died in here?” Even stops, concerned. The thought makes him feel uneasy.

“Oh,” Noora’s face falls. “Did Sonja not tell you?”

Even grits his teeth and continues walking. “No.”

“Is that a problem?” She sounds genuinely concerned. Her voice is high and cute. It’s nice. It makes Even feel less lonely. Grounded, almost. And maybe it’s better that she’s telling Even rather than if Sonja did.

He relaxes his shoulders, but knows the lack of company surely won’t help at night, his brain spinning out to play tricks on him now that he’s aware of the fact. “I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t dare ask which room she died in. Noora’s too smart to mention it.

“So I guess that was his great great grandmother,” Noora continues after a slightly awkward pause, the weight of that information evaporating. Even holds the door open for them both as they sneak under his outstretched arm through the passageway into the foyer. “And the villa is his. He’s quite wealthy, and in exchange for our help, he gave us permission to hold private events here on behalf of Uffizi—are you going to start in here first?” Noora looks up to the barrelled ceiling, smiling.

“I think so,” Even puts his hands on his hips, staring up with her.

“We’ll just leave the boxes here, then.” Noora sets hers down, Eva follows. “I’ve got your pigments, plaster, oil, solvents, brushes, picks, gloves, lights, measuring beakers…” she trails, pointing laxidazy at the boxes. “And one of them is for the kitchen,” she winks. “But if you’re finding you need something, you can always call me and I’ll do my best to get it to you. Oh—” She does a quick spin, making grabby hands at Eva, who sets something jingly in her palm. She hands it to Even.

A set of keys.

“I figured you could borrow Eva’s Vespa, too,” she blushes. “Everything is just so far away—and you’re all alone—”

“Thank you,” Even can almost feel himself tearing up, too grateful to refuse her offer.

“It’s really no problem,” Eva chimes in, waving her hand as if to brush it off. “Just treat her carefully.”

Even nods once, a bright smile on his face that hurts his jaw a little because those muscles unfortunately haven’t been exercised in a while. “Will do.”

“Well, we’ll leave you to it,” Noora looks up at the fresco again. “We’re in Florence, but Prato might be a bit closer if you need to go into town.”

Even sees them out, walking halfway down the hill as the two pile into the tiny Fiat. A lethargic wave goodbye.

It’s amazing how much he already misses human contact. He watches the girls drive until he can’t see them anymore, the car turning a bend as the tire snaps over a twig, and then they’re gone.

Even sheds his shirt inside, beads of sweat already forming at his temples after trudging back up the hill that seems more like a mini mountain with every pass over. He scoots the boxes in the foyer up against the wall with his foot, picking up the one labeled _cucina._ Dark marker on cardboard. He opens it on his way to the kitchen, tearing a bite into a loaf of bread before he makes it there. A glass bottle of olive oil. A small bag of ground espresso. A box of tea bags. Two cartons of eggs—one labeled _cucina_ and one one labeled _fresco_ —that makes him smile. Several bags of _galletti_ cookies and a shrink wrapped cut of thin prosciutto. A wrinkly, brown paper bag with tomatoes, onions, and garlic. More boxes of pasta he thinks he’s actually ever eaten in his combined twenty plus years of life, a giant bag of frozen shrimps that’s half thawed—he chucks it into the freezer—chunks of different cheeses wrapped in cling plastic, a bottle of wine he’s either going to have to smash on the pavement or practice willpower on…

His stomach growls.

He takes another bite of bread and carefully puts everything away, snacking on the cookies as he does so. He’ll make himself dinner later. As a reward.

For now, he heads back out to the shower and rinses the sweat off of his palms and forearms. Returns to his room to grab a cloth headband to push his hair back. Starts to unpack the boxes in the foyer, placing everything neatly in a way that mimics his setup back home. He drags a ladder from the entertaining room over to the foyer and places it closest to the door, resting a foot on it while he puts his headphones in, taking his time before pressing shuffle on _A Place In The Sun,_ which rings through his ears with the happy reverb of _Quicksand._

_Are you doing alright? / Are you burning out? / Are you happy with the way it turned out?_

The lyrics sure don’t match the urge to dance. Even can’t help but take them personally. 

He’ll start first with cleaning and work his way down. Gloves. Sponges. A gel solvent he reads the label on before deciding to add another milliliter of water to dull it down.

Very carefully, he wipes away at the edge of a stray leaf on the outskirts of the fresco, watching it grow a brighter hue of green as the dirt and dust wipe away. The shock of color brings a sweet smile to his face, and he can picture the foyer a magnificent shade brighter when he’s all done— the greens and reds really the star—and maybe that will be worth it. 

But he squints his eyes when the solvent seems to rest on the surface, like droplets of water on skin after a liberal application of sunscreen. It’s not a good sign.

He pats it with the dry end of the sponge—maybe he just used too much. It soaks into it, thankfully, so he’s more careful with his next application.

Only it happens again, like no matter how much solvent Even is using, the walls seems to always spit half of it back up.

His heart rate increases, blood flowing faster through his veins.

He shouldn’t do this, but he wants to test his theory. He stumbles down from the ladder and digs through the supplies to find pigment and plaster. He mixes a microscopic amount precisely, not bothering to match the color too closely for right now. With a small brush, he applies it to the clean spot.

The wet, green plaster falls, and so does his chest. He watches it slip down the wall, unable to stick.

Fuck.

His immediate thought is beeswax. It makes the most sense—a dormant house lying vacant for years on end. Who knows what animals got in and out during that time.

The problem is he’s not equipped for this kind of problem. It involves a lab. A biologist. 

Even curses himself for not taking a closer look last night—can already hear Sonja’s disappointed voice scolding him. 

He takes a slow walk of shame out of the front doors down the hill, not risking a patchy connection.

“Even?” Sonja answers on the other line after a couple of rings.

“Hey,” he stalls, kicking at the dirt. “I have some bad news.”

He can hear her sharply inhale. “Shit. Okay. What is it?”

“Well, I’m trying to clean, and I’m pretty sure there’s a thin coat of beeswax over the plaster,” he bites his lip as he says it, ready for the verbal backlash, as if it’s somehow his fault.

There’s just a heavy sigh on the other end. “I’ll send someone from MIPM.” She hangs up.

 

•

 

“Hello?”

A mild panic rocks through Even’s nerves when he hears far off footsteps on the tile floor of the kitchen, the antique squeak of the back door when it opens to the patio. His fingers stop mid-rift on the strings of his guitar, sitting on his bent, bare knee. 

Admittedly, while he waits for pest management, there’s not much Even’s been able to do during the last two days. He can’t clean the fresco in the foyer without damaging it further. He spent most of yesterday reading the only book he brought, and this morning he risked a trip into town on the Vespa despite their supposed arrival.

So, playing the guitar shirtless in the backyard seemed appropriate. He’s mentally kicking himself in the head.

Even stands and turns around, leaning his guitar clumsily against the metal garden table and brushing his tingling hands on the cloth of his shorts, coming almost eye level with someone who surprisingly catches him off guard. 

“That sounded nice. I’m assuming you’re Even. Isak.” The newcomer says it in their native tongue, extends his hand. “Sonja sent me from Museum Integrated Pest Management of Eastern Norway—said you had a bee problem?” 

Even shakes it, a little tongue tied. “Uh, yeah. Beeswax.”

Few men rarely turn his head. He’s known it since the day he hit puberty but seldomly acted on it mainly for convenience’s sake. But when they do—fuck. They do.

He’s not too unlike Even in stature—maybe more toned. He seems to stand better on his own two feet, like he takes up more space in a confident kind of way. His forehead is already sweaty, curly hair that looks like a nightmare to have in this weather. Even’s immediate thought is that he’d make an excellent figure model—perfect proportions. A beautiful face that looks somewhat hard to draw, yet rewarding because of all the angles. A new sharp one with every turn of his head.

“Sorry to just barge in. I tried knocking,” Isak explains, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. He looks Even up and down now that he’s in full view, maybe just realizing he’s half naked. “You look just how I thought you would.”

Even’s not quite sure what that means, especially when he’s projecting his own fantasies and anticipations into the scenario, twisting it all up. “You look nothing like I thought you would,” he deadpans lamely in return. 

Isak’s face comes alive with a tilted smile, lip curling up to reveal his gums. “Yeah?’ He looks down at himself, wiggles his toes. “What were you expecting?”

“Like a forty year old balding dude,” Even admits, although this is much nicer. “What were _you_ expecting?”

“Tall, troubled artist,” Isak says without hesitation, and it should seem rude but none of it carries through in his tone. “Where should I put my stuff?” He drops his bag from his shoulders, dramatizing the movement by reaching over his body to rub one of them.

Even’s stomach hardens. “Uh,” he starts stupidly, “you’re staying here? In the villa?”

“That’s what Sonja said I could do when she called,” Isak explains with one eyebrow rising. “They couldn’t afford to put me up.”

Even stores the internal rage that’s been building for Sonja by squeezing his fingernails into his palms. He smashes his eyes shut, too, before letting out a calming exhale. When he opens them, Isak has definitely taken note of his body language. “Sorry,” he means, “I was just under the impression you’d be staying somewhere else.”

“I mean, I can call Sonja—”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Even moves for Isak’s bag on the ground, trying to change his tone of voice while hoisting it up. “I can just sleep on the floor—”

“The floor?”

“There’s only one room,” Even explains, Isak on his heels as they enter the kitchen from the patio and make way towards the front of the house.

Even tosses Isak’s bag on the bed, the mattress creaking as it gives a light bounce. Despite it being the maid’s room—small, less ornate—it’s the only room with a little bit of life after these three days. The sheets are messy. Even’s shirt is hanging over the back of the wooden chair he’s moved over by the bed as a nightstand. On top of it lies his book, his phone. His backpack hangs on the foot of the bed frame peg, and an assortment of things from his trip into town he hasn’t unpacked yet stay hidden inside a paper bag on the dresser.

Isak’s stance changes—nervous. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Even recognizes it. It’s how he often acts when he feels like an unwelcome guest. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” Isak insists. 

“No, please. Take the bed—”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. You were here first.”

“Isak. I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“So we’re both sleeping on the floor, then,” Isak pouts. He moves towards the bed and sloppily pulls the sheet off, blanketing it over the tile floor. He drags the pillows off, too, scattering them haphazardly.

“Fine,” Even agrees, although he can’t help but smile and raise his hands in defeat—this whole thing is ridiculous. He grabs his shirt off the chair and throws it on before starting to back out of the room. “You… you just make the floor bed, I guess. Are you hungry? I’m going to make dinner.”

“Yeah,” Isak shuffles the sheet around, looking up and smiling under a long, blonde curl that’s fallen into his face. “Starved. Do you mind if I go through your stuff while you cook?” He waves his hand out towards the door to the hallway leading to the foyer, motioning at the boxes with Even’s supplies. “I just need a light and some magnifying glasses to get a good look at the plaster and the wax on the fresco. Might as well get a headstart.”

“Sure,” Even nods, halfway out the door. “It should all be in the top box. The light is already sitting out by the ladder.”

“Thanks,” Isak smiles, flopping down dramatically on the spacious floor bed with a loud thud that doesn’t sound too easy on the joints. He tries not to wince. He probably does when Even’s halfway down the hall.

Even hears Isak climb the ladder a few minutes later while he chops garlic in the kitchen, a pot of water on the stove almost at a roaring boil. He shucks the tails and chops the gross heads off of the frozen shrimps—why they’re still there he doesn’t know, but he’ll be damned if he eats something that still has eyes. When the pasta is almost done, he adds them to the simmering tomatoes on the burner, just a few minutes on each side. 

His playlist melts into _New Mistake_ from the speakers on his phone resting on the counter and he turns it up, humming along.

_Looks like our hero's gonna fall / The bow's about to break / 'Cause any ol' way that I fall / I'll be in your arms as we lie awake / With our lovely new mistake_

He takes his time. Taste tests the pasta every few minutes so it doesn’t overcook and keeps a constant stir on the shrimps and tomatoes so the garlic doesn’t burn. 

He may or may not be pulling out all of the stops he can with his limited supplies in order to impress Isak. Not that it would be different if it were anyone else. It’s just nice having someone to cook for. 

He twists the pasta from the water and twirls it with the sauce, making it look as nice as he can in the pan to make up for their lack of plates. 

“It smells too good in here,” Isak waltzes in, hand on his stomach. “This is me coming to offer you some help, by the way, but I’m secretly hoping you’re already done.”

Even does a proud, pursed lip smirk, grabbing the pan with a towel and jerking his head to the side, motioning for Isak to follow him out back.

They sit at the garden table—Even lights the candle, hands him a fork, and they begin to eat right out of the pan. It’s weirdly intimate for two strangers. Sharing a meal at sunset from the same plate. Their forks playing war for the best looking shrimp. Even’s so thankful for the company, though, the awkwardness is like a low flame on the backburner.

It helps that Isak is easy to get along with—seems to fill in the spaces when Even doesn’t know what to say. Something Even used to be able to do before it felt like his confidence disappeared. 

“There’s _a lot_ of wax on that fresco,” Isak mentions after he’s slowed down enough to talk through his food. “It shouldn’t be too hard to make a microemulsion, the problem is it’s slightly toxic, so I can’t cover the whole thing at once since there’s no ventilation system. Also, the emulsion needs to be made and used the same day, so I’ll be needing to make multiple trips to the lab.”

“How long to do you think it will take to cover the whole thing?” Even asks.

Isak nods his head, looking up while he takes another bite and thinks. “Few weeks?” He guesses.

“Can I clean and replaster the emulsified parts when you’re done with them? Like we can tag team?”

“I think so,” Isak shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” He shoves Even’s fork away for the last shrimp, but stabs it and holds it up between them. “Are you going to cook for me every night?” He twirls his fork around, resting his tired head in his hand. “This was so good. Or maybe I was just so hungry.”

“Can you cook?” Even asks.

“Not worth shit,” Isak grins, his cheek melting into his palm. He looks high off of a good meal.

“Then I guess so,” Even settles, although he’s secretly delighted.

Isak lets out a drowsy laugh. “Right answer.” He holds his fork up to Even’s mouth, daring him to take a bite.

Hesitantly, Even eats the whole thing, trying to chew with a closed mouth, but it’s hard to over a smile. He feels embarrassed, but the fluttery kind—not the mortified kind.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Isak grabs the near empty pan, save for a stray noodle. “Er, dish,” he corrects. “Is that your Vespa out front? Can you give me a ride to the lab tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, of course,” Even agrees, getting up to stretch—sleepiness straining through every extended muscle. He feels it in his bones by the time he’s relaxed. “I need to get some stuff, anyway.”

“Thanks. I’m going to knock out then, if you don’t mind.” Isak makes way for the back door, keeping it propped open with his foot for Even.

While Isak cleans, Even makes a point to get dressed for bed. Well, undressed. He keeps his shorts but loses his shirt—it’s too hot for that. The sun is gone but the air is still humid. He turns off the overhead light and turns on the lamp, elbows and knees knocking solidly on the tile floor foolishly covered with the thin sheet once belonging to the bed as he sinks down. He can already feel his spine start to twist—his feet and hands start to fall asleep. He grabs the book he’s finished from its place atop the chair and flips it open to the middle, pretending to read.

Maybe to seem interesting. Maybe to just seem as normal as possible—distracted with something instead of laying there like an idiot when Isak inevitably comes in and lays next to him.

He keeps pretending to read when Isak undresses. Keeps pretending to read when he feels his presence an arm stretch away, same knobby knees and sharp elbows on the tile, longing for comfort. To seem like maybe he’s finishing a passage—maybe a chapter—Even turns a few pages and pretends to read for just a minute more. When he reaches behind him to turn off the lamp, Isak already has his eyes closed, hands folded peacefully on his stomach.

Even studies him for just a moment short of creepy. Fair skin that’s bound to burn in the hot sun after a few more days here, the way Even’s has. Pointy nose and pointy top lip and pointy cheekbones. Thin muscles around his middle. Nice legs.

It’s burned behind his eyelids when he closes them, knowing very well he won’t be able to get to sleep down here. Even decides to wait until Isak’s breathing evens out, and then he’s going to get on the bed.

Only it doesn’t. Isak keeps sighing. Shuffling. Making micro movements to try and get comfy and not disturb Even, who he might assume is asleep.

“This is terrible,” Isak’s voice breaks the silence in a whisper laugh.

“Awful,” Even agrees.

“Who’s idea was this?”

Even slaps a hand to his forehead, letting out a low chuckle. “Yours.”

“Fuck.”

“Should we just get in bed?” Even suggests. “Fuck it. I’m going to. You made your floor. Now you have to lie in it.” Even stands, flopping onto the bed, which now feels like cloud nine. Isak stays still. “I was only kidding,” Even clears up.

Isak’s fast on his feet. “Oh thank god.”

Even feels the weight of him even out the mattress. It’s a lot smaller than the floor. They have to fight for skin realestate, but it’s unavoidable to touch.

“Fuck yeah this is so much better,” Isak sighs. He turns his back to Even, laying on his side.

It takes a long time for Even to get drowsy. He stares at the ceiling, tries to count sheep. 

But there’s an upside. Isak’s steady breaths beside him, drunk with sleep. The warm skin of his back pressed against his shoulder. The whisper of a good night. It makes Even feel a little less invisible. 

 

•

 

Bleary-eyed, Even wakes up alone and wonders if maybe yesterday was a dream. 

But Isak’s backpack is strewn open on top of the dresser, a shirt on the floor. Some of his personal items—his wallet, his toothbrush, his phone—are scrambled with Even’s on the chair they’ve turned into a bedside table. 

He’s a messy roommate already, but the evidence that he’s here lets Even’s stomach settle.

The sun in the room makes him begin to sweat, so he forgoes his shirt and snatches his pack of cigarettes, bare feet on the tile until they hit the cement of the patio out back. 

Where Isak is. Totally naked under the outdoor shower. Surprised, with nothing to shield himself, he turns to the back. And then the front. And then the back again, unable to make up his mind on whether his ass or his dick is less offensive. 

“Fuck,” Even is already turning around, halfway back inside. “I’m so sorry.” He’s not sure if Isak hears the apology. 

He throws his elbows on the counter back in the kitchen and hangs his head, taking a moment to collect himself. When he blinks, Isak’s naked body is etched into the back of his eyelids. 

Espresso should keep them open. 

Even measures the water and spoons in the dark, fragrant grounds—sets the moka pot on the stove after he lights it with the lighter still in his hand from his unsmoked cigarette.

He tries to focus on the smell. Rich and bold as is bubbles over in the pot. On finding something to eat—he fries some bread in a pan, coating it with egg. On not closing his eyes. It doesn’t help that he can still hear the shower running outside, giving the memory a bit more life. 

Even’s mortified more than anything. He tries to keep his hands busy. Takes the moka pot off the stove before the espresso burns. Leaves the bread in the pan but transfers it to the counter—a peace offering.

It almost distracts him enough to forget his medication, which he unscrews the cap of just as he hears the shower turn off.

When Isak comes in, his wet feet slapping the tile, he’s only got a towel wrapped around his waist. Water drips from his hair, down his collarbones, his chest, his stomach, over his belly button. Even tries not to stare, so he turns around.

“Sorry for walking in on you,” Even keeps his eyes focused on his own hands, but he says it as warmly as he can, hiding behind a gulp of espresso. “Uh, I made breakfast,” he nudges the pan of bread.

“Bound to happen,” Isak waves. He doesn’t seem all too phased. There’s a weird playfulness to his voice. “It smells good. Did you make coffee?”

Finally, because it’s probably weird if Even keeps avoiding his gaze, he turns and hands Isak the mug after a final sip, discreetly swallowing it with his pill. “Espresso,” he warns. “You can’t drink it like coffee.”

Isak definitely notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He just takes one sip and melts, both hands around the mug with steam pouring out like he’s in a goddamn commercial. His towel hangs dangerously on his waist. Even peeks while Isak has his eyes closed through a sip. It makes his lower belly gush with a fast pump of blood.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Isak hands Even back the mug, smacking his lips. “Then we can go to the lab?”

Even nods. He makes a point to dawdle in the kitchen and wait for Isak to get changed before he does so himself, avoiding any more potential naked run-ins.

“Where exactly are we going?” Even asks as they step outside, sun beating down on them. He flips his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and rests them behind his ears, the world a shade darker.

“Sonja arranged for a lab in Prato to have me set up,” Isak informs. “Is that far?”

“That’s where I went the other day,” Even nods. “Maybe like thirty minutes.” He takes the front seat of the Vespa, putting the key in the ignition and letting it vibrate to life under him. “She doesn’t go very fast.”

Hesitantly, Isak hooks his knee over the back seat behind him, his spread legs around Even’s hips, his lap pressed against his lower back. To complete the movement, Isak circles his arms around Even’s middle, clasping his hands right over his belly button. “I’ve never ridden one of these before,” he admits.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Even flips the kickstand up with his heel and takes off.

The first few passes to the main highway are dirt, the clods making the ride bumpy. Even feels Isak squeeze his thighs tight over every knot in the road, holding on better. At one point, maybe about halfway there, Isak rests his cheek against the top of Even’s spine for a moment like he’s tired. He can feel Isak’s damp, curly hair soft against the back of his neck.

Even hates that he’s been so lonely this feels like ecstasy. But truth be told, he feels more visible right now than ever. Getting away from that giant, empty villa that seems to be a manifestation of his invisibility, the green hills whipping by them as they cruise through the Italian countryside and putting kilometers between them—Isak, who’s beginning to make that house seem more like a home clinging on to him, and Even pretends he needs to.

Even parks in the town’s main piazza, feeling Isak peel off of him as they get to their feet.

Isak pulls out his phone. “Lab is in the university a block over. I shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he explains, taking a few steps backward. “Meet back here then?”

“Sure,” Even calls after him, watching Isak smile over his shoulder as he walks away.

Even gets some Roman broccoli and a few zucchini from a small, elderly man with a cart of veggies in the square, some more cigarettes and chocolate from the tabacchi, and spends an obscene amount of time (and an equally immoral amount of money) picking out a handmade mug (as well as another book) in a bookshop that also sells art and jewelry.

He spends the last half of the hour sitting outside one of many bars in the piazza, down a few sips of a cappuccino freddo and a cornetto.

And he shares his last few bites with Isak when he comes bounding back, a large, square, black bag strung across his body—safety glasses on on top of sunglasses atop his forehead, pushing back his curls. He smells like cleaning agents, but Even could learn to love that.

“I got you something,” Even pulls the paper-wrapped mug out of the shopping bag, handing it over to Isak who unwraps it with a coy smile. “Because there’s only one at the house,” Even explains, feeling a little silly now. “And it seemed like you liked the espresso.”

“Blue is my favorite,” Isak grins, twisting his wrist so he can see every side of it. “Thank you.”

Even just shrugs, dropping his head to hide his smile.

“Should we head back?”

Even nods, dusting cornetto crumbs from his shorts when he stands. Isak behind him on the Vespa feels just as lovely on the drive back. Arms around his waist. Thighs tucked snugly around his own. The fact they’ll have to make this trip multiple times throughout their stay here makes Even feel light all over. He daydreams about it while it’s happening.

“I’m going to get started,” Isak announces, hopping off the seat and retrieving his bag from the top case on the back. Even waits for him. “It’ll take me most of the morning to apply the emulsion—I’m thinking I’ll start with the ceiling—maybe I’ll get about a quarter done before I pass out from the smell. And then it needs to sit for a few hours.”

“Is it something I can help you with?” Even asks. They walk slowly beside each other up the hill, the villa looming. 

Isak hoists his bag up a little farther on his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” he shrugs. “But when it’s done you can clean it while I apply some more. Probably sometime before bed.”

“Finally,” Even says, relieved. “I’ve felt so useless since I’ve gotten here.”

Isak stops before the door, twisting the timeworn knob and holding it open before the cool air of the foyer is lost to the heat. “It’s not a bad place to feel that way, though,” he notes, glancing at the dip below the hill. The cypress trees along the edge. How stray cherry laurels canopy the sky before the villa. And then inside to the former grand interior back on its way there.

Even’s not so sure if he agrees when the house seems like the personification of his anonymity. Objectively, though, yes, it is beautiful. But that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous. “Maybe,” Even agrees. He’s not quite brave enough yet to say that Isak being here the last two days has kept him from those dangerous feelings. How that loneliness and isolation he felt before he got here might compound in on itself with the surroundings.

Inside, Isak suits up—he pushes his hair back with a cloth headband. Safety glasses, gloves and a dust mask around his neck. It’s weirdly cute.

Even smiles, leaning against the doorway to the room with crossed arms and watches him for a moment—in his element. It’s evident he loves what he does. “How does it work?” He asks.

“The emulsion?” Isak almost laughs, like he can’t even begin to possibly explain it to someone like Even. He takes out jars of the stuff, and Even can see him wrinkle his nose under his mask at the smell. “It’s—” he decides, resting a hand on his hip while he tries to be concise. 

Really, he could say anything, Even just wants to hear him talk.

“It’s, well, first things first, it’s made of water and organic phases—why we need the lab—” he gesticulates with his free hand, making an obvious motion, “and it’s stabilized with a surfactant, which is a substance that reduces surface tension of liquids—it’s sitting between the water and the organic phases.”

Even goes wide-eyed, eyebrows raised, nodding along with a comic, tight-lipped smile like he knows exactly what Isak is talking about.

Isak only rolls his eyes, which makes Even’s stomach roll unfairly along with them, but continues. “The organic phases create a huge surface area thanks to the surfactant that acts like a detergent, dissolving, in this case, the wax.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Even lies, and Isak can see right through him.

But at least he can see him. Even feels life trickle through his veins at his own tangibility, made evident by Isak’s smile meant only for him.

But he’ll let him work. Without much else to do, Even spends a lazy afternoon half on the bed, plucking passive chords on his guitar. 

When he’s feeling creative, he’ll improvise. Usually in G major or E minor. A lot of starts and stops—he’ll play a few progressions over and over again until they’re muscle memory and add them to his repertoire. Some of them eventually become songs, others kind of just stay where they are. A warm up. A nice sound. Those ones usually get a few lyrics, too, but they stay inside Even’s head.

When his thoughts are out of focus, he’ll play something he knows, something his fingers have already memorized. A little story goes along with each one—lots of Marillion and Third Eye Blind when he’s feeling thoughtful. Joe Strummer and Abandoned Pools when he wants to escape. Right now he’s strumming _We’re the Same_ at about half the speed.

_I don't have to speak, and you know what I'm thinking / You don't need to hear what I say / I don't have to ask, and you'll guess what I'm seeking / You don't need to hide what you know_

He sings along in his head. 

The sun passes over the house, high noon casting it directly above the roof. The only time of day it’s not streaming through the windows. It doesn’t feel like too much time has passed, but Isak falls sweaty and tired onto the bed beside Even, who’s sitting up next to him. Their feet still on the floor.

“I was getting a headache from the smell,” Isak explains, out of breath. His mask hangs around his neck, glasses pushed up with his headband. “But I think I got what I needed to. For now.”

“How long does it need to sit for?” Even asks.

“Probably three or four hours,” Isak thinks, closing his eyes, breathing heavy, sinking his back into the mattress. He taps a foot on the tile, uses the toe of his shoes to shuck them off until he’s barefoot. “Why did you stop?” He peeks an eye open. “It sounded so nice.”

Put on the spot, Even looks down at him nervously and smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak insists. “I could hear you while I was working. Did you make it up?”

“Nah,” Even sighs. He lays down halfway next to Isak, their backs parallel to each other and perpendicular to the mattress. The guitar rests on his belly, his hands still in position on the frets and strings. “That was Matthew Sweet.”

Matthew Sweet is for when he’s feeling good. 

“Never heard of him,” Isak hums.

Even just nudges him in the ribs, tilts his head to the side so his cheek is against the sheets. Isak’s got his eyes closed again. The pointy profile of his face so close Even would definitely be embarrassed to get caught staring. He lets the seconds tick by before they venture into dangerously too long before turning back to look at the high ceiling.

“Do you have anything you’ve written?” Isak says softly, the afternoon weighing him down.

It’s slow in tempo, but the complicated time signature makes it more haunting than lackluster. Even wrote it about a year ago, when everything really started to go to shit, and admittedly, it’s his favorite. He feels Isak sink further into the mattress beside him the longer he plays. 

“This is much better,” Isak murmurs, his words slurry with sleep. A smile fades away on his face when Even looks down, and his breath evens out when Even reaches the end.

 

•

 

“Have you ever heard of the Theseus Paradox?” Isak asks, cutting careful circles in the pasta dough while Even meticulously fills each one with spinach, ricotta, and prosciutto, pinching them with a fork along the edges to seal the insides.

Tomatoes and basil simmer on the stove, fresh from the market this morning when they rode into Prato so Isak could go to the lab. Every once in awhile, Even mashes them with the fork to make a sauce. His mouth waters—they’re both starving.

And tired. Limbs heavy and brains on autopilot as they dance around the kitchen to make a well deserved dinner, Isak the sous chef. It’s tempting to just eat bread and cheese, which require little effort, but Isak’s expression with each bite of every meal Even prepares is too good for Even to pass up. It’s been their first full day on the job, getting to work side by side while Even cleans and paints, Isak on the other end of the fresco to apply the microemulsion and remove the beeswax. Meeting in the middle. A true team.

They’ve still got their painting clothes on—baggy, old splotched shirts and and jeans.

“No,” Even smiles, watching Isak concentrate—the tip of his tongue preciously on his lower lip while he finishes cutting out another circle of dough, stopping to admire his work. “Enlighten me.”

“I was just thinking about it while we were working,” Isak shrugs. He stacks the dough neatly next to the filling Even made, watching his skillful hands seal the last of them. “And if it applies to what we’re doing.”

Even drops each ravioli carefully into the pot of salted water, turning the burner down and watching it settle to a medium boil. In a few minutes, they’ll float to the top and be ready. He focuses back to Isak. “Yeah?”

“It’s like...” Isak starts, obviously trying to put it into layman’s terms for Even. “It’s a theory that raises the question of change on some sort of physical object, and whether it remains fundamentally the same object if all of its components were replaced.” He leans his back against the counter, turning to face Even, who turns away from the stove and mimics him.

“I think I follow,” Even nods. He likes it when Isak explains things to him. Their brains are very different—from their thought patterns to their processes, and it’s refreshing.

“It’s called the Theseus Paradox because it uses Theseus’s battleship as an example, but it could be applied to anything, really. Cars. People. Frescoes.” Isak smiles at Even, and Even smiles back, nudges their shoulders together. “So, if Theseus’s ship went through years and years of restoration—the body, the sails, the deck—until every part had been replaced, would it still be Theseus’s ship?”

There’s not an easy answer to that one, Even is no philosopher. “And you’re wondering if that applies to the fresco,” he states, wary of the question. 

By now, the raviolis have floated to the surface, and Isak gets the colandar from the cupboard so Even can drain them. When done, Isak leans back against the counter, contemplative. “I would think it would have to.”

“You mentioned people—do you think it happens to people?” Even asks, steam rising from the sink as he drains the pasta. Carefully, he tosses the ravioli with the sauce on the stove, just long enough to coat each one.

Truthfully, he doesn’t like the idea. It’s hard not to self project, especially when this Even, right here right now, is a lot different than the Even a few years ago. Not in the ways he imagined, either. Not in the ways he would wish upon someone else.

“Technically, yes, I guess I do,” Isak agrees, seeming to have come to the realization on the spot. He follows Even outside, carrying the pan, and they sit at the garden table. A dinner tradition they’ve come to subconsciously create. “I mean, all of our cells have a finite lifespan—they die off and are replaced with new cells. Eventually, yeah, I mean, at some point you have 100% completely new cells than the ones you’re born with.”

“What about your brain cells?” Even asks, mouth full of ravioli. He’s too hungry to care about manners. Too hasty to wait until Isak lights the candle in the middle. “Isn’t that why they tell you to not smoke weed, or, I don’t know, bang your head too many times? Because it kills brain cells, and like, once they’re gone they’re gone? Or something?”

Isak presses his lips together, scrunches his eyebrows before nodding with a thinking frown. “You’re right,” he seems to remember. “You’re totally right. Most brain cells last your whole life.”

It’s a perfect defense. “Not to sound too cheesy,” Even bites his lip, swirling a ravioli with his fork in the sauce, “but I guess art, to me, has a brain.” He sees Isak smile kindly after he says it, whether doting or derisive, he doesn’t know. “And as a conservator, I try to remember that—to protect that. I remember whatever I’m working on has a mind of its own, so to speak.”

“I like that,” Isak smiles. His face is unfairly angled in the glow of the candlelight—his bone structure should be illegal. Long shadows of his eyelashes. The high points of his cheeks. A baroque painting in true _chiaroscuro._ To the naked eye, this would look romantic as hell. “I like the way you think.”

 _That makes one of us._ Even doesn’t say it out loud. The sentiment melts his heart, though. He feels it drip down his ribcage with gooey weakness. It means even more to him since Isak already knows that the way he thinks is on a different plane of normal—doesn’t judge him for it, either.

Finally, Isak takes a bite when the conversation seems to reach its end. “Fuck,” he closes his eyes, leans back in the metal chair. “This is so good.”

Even takes another bite, forks fighting against the cast iron for the fattest ravioli. “It is,” he agrees, sweet cheese melting in his mouth. It’s weirdly comforting to know Isak is tasting the exact same thing. Only when he says it, he keeps the secret half of the double meaning locked away in his chest.

 

•

 

The days start to blur into a week after they’ve established a routine, which first starts with breakfast. Vespa rides to Prato that Even doesn’t really need to escort Isak to but he does anyway. Serenaded, afternoon naps when it’s too hot to work and dinners they eat out of the single pan together on the back patio. More work until they’re sleepy, and then relaxing before bed. 

This day isn’t unlike the last few. 

Except when Even wakes up, the skin of his thighs and shoulders touching Isak as they lost the awkward inches between each other before sleeping, he has a full, sunlit flooded view of Isak’s morning wood, straining against his boxers while he lightly snores. Pressing into the side of his hip.

Even can already feel a steady stream in his body run south—a river after a storm. By the time he tries to will it away, he’s already half-hard. The thought of turning lazily on his side and flushing his front with Isak brings him all the way there. It’s been so long since he’s slept with someone—so long since he’s slept with another guy, and it doesn’t help that those memories are some of his hottest. 

It doesn’t help, either, that Isak has the most delicate balance of adorable, snoozy, curly-headed cute going on up top—lower lip parted in a snore, his bare chest rising and falling in perfect time—mixed with toned legs barely spread open, boxers made tight from his erection and clinging to his ass hot on the bottom.

He really shouldn’t be having these thoughts about someone he’s supposed to be working with. His half asleep brain and fully awake dick don’t seem to care.

Isak stirs, and Even feels the light pulse of Isak’s cock against his upper thigh, like he’s seconds away from a wet dream.

Even swallows dryly, the minute shift in his body language feels weirdly good, and he needs to leave before he comes in his boxers like a teenager.

Creaking joints waking up, Even props himself on his elbow and extracts his weight from the mattress as slowly as possible, trying not to wake Isak. When his bare feet hit the tile, he throws on a shirt, adjusts himself (and berates himself for the pressure of his hand on his swollen cock feeling better than it should), and treads faintly into the foyer and down the hall towards the back of the house to the kitchen.

Even thinks something mundane like shaking the last few espresso grounds into the moka pot or lighting the stove would calm him down, but it doesn’t. He can still faintly feel the pressure spot on his hip, Isak pressing into him. Can still remember the shape of his cock, the tight outline in his boxers.

Even’s own stirs, giving a light jump, flushing up against his hip at the thought of Isak still in bed, still hard.

Still pressed against Even.

Fuck.

He goes to the bathroom upstairs while the espresso steams, sits on the closed toilet seat and just stares at his dick, seeming to pulse with it’s own heartbeat under the cloth of his boxers as blood pumps fast through his body. Each rush through his veins teetering between more pleasurable and more frustrating.

“Please go away,” Even whispers to it, desperate.

Obviously, it doesn’t. In fact, a small wet spot at the tip appears, as if to mock him.

It’s been ages since he’s gotten off—the doctor wasn’t lying when he said Even’s sex drive might take a hit from the meds, and Even knows it’s all biological on Isak’s end—healthy blood flow and nerve supply. Even’s woken up with an erection a billion times and it meant nothing—Isak’s means nothing.

But right now, yeah, it’s a little more than just morning wood on Even’s part. For the first time in awhile, he feels hot all over—feels his belly get tight with desire.

He leans back, stretches his spread legs. Closes his eyes. Reaches into his boxers and takes care of himself, trying hard not to think of Isak. But as soon as he slips into his brain, Even is coming. He swallows a sound, the kind that doesn’t slip past his lips unless the orgasm is _really_ good.

Tensing, then relaxing, the dread starts to creep in when he comes down from his high, but damn if that didn’t feel amazing. He looks down at his boxers, ruined. He’s an idiot.

He prays Isak is still asleep so he can rinse them off in the shower, but the dread multiplies when he descends the stairs and hears him padding around in the kitchen.

Isak must hear him, too. “You burnt the espresso,” he calls, turning to see Even half visible in the doorway, his hips hidden behind the wall with his torso and face leaning over the side into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I forgot about it,” Even admits, grimacing.

“Should I make some more?” Isak asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“That might have been the last of it,” Even remembers, squinting. “Yeah, sorry, I think that was the last of it.”

Isak just shrugs, pouring burnt espresso into the blue mug Even picked out for him. “Meh. I’m not picky. I think it’s about to rain,” he says, looking out the window.

“I’m going to take a shower, then, before it does,” Even hints, trying to get Isak to clear out of the kitchen so he can do his walk of shame through it unscathed. 

“Shouldn’t we try to make it to the lab before it does?” Isak questions, getting more suspicious as Even continues to hide half of himself behind the doorway.

“Yeah,” Even agrees, “I’ll be real fast,” he insists.

Isak smiles, steaming mug that Even bought him clasped with two hands. Bare chest and feet. Only his boxers—it’s hard not to imagine the outline of his cock pressed level against his hip, straining against them like it was only a few minutes ago when he was asleep. Even doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look at him the same, honestly. He offsets the _I’m cute AND hot_ thing flawlessly. “Great, I’ll go get dressed,” he smiles, passing Even in the doorway who is careful to turn his hips at an angle.

He rushes out back, strips, lets the water run over him. (He should have just done this in the beginning.) Wrings out his boxers. Someone was by yesterday to hack at the grape vines, which are now neatly trimmed and standing on new arbors. It shields Even a bit less from the world, naked outside.

The sky is a shade greyer when he’s done, and by the time they’ve stepped out front to try and beat the rain, they’ve already lost. It’s coming down in a thick sheet when they reach the Vespa at the bottom of the hill; they’re soaked before they make it back inside.

“Sorry,” Even apologizes, out of breath. He follows Isak into the room, where they shed their wet shirts and fling them over the chair and the end of the bed frame.

Isak flops onto the sheets, still unmade from this morning. He lays on his belly, nuzzles his face into the pillow and stretches his body out, taking up the whole bed like it’s been a long time coming. The rain patting against the windows is cozy—this room feels more like a little home than it ever has. “We wouldn’t have made it in time anyway,” he sighs. “And I’m not mad about it—I could sleep for a little longer.” Isak rolls over, propping an elbow up to turn and look at Even. “I had one of those long, crazy, super detailed dreams that feel kind of like real life. So I woke up spent.”

Even is too afraid to ask what about. He just swallows the nervous lump in his throat, tries to will away every thought racing through his brain and thinks it’s probably best to just remove himself from the situation—clear his head. “I’m going to go touch up the section I cleaned last night.” He backs out of the room.

It’s a welcome distraction. A pocket of stability when certain situations out of his control make him feel a little short of stable. He cues up _So Much for the Afterglow_ and _One Hit Wonder_ ironically is the first on shuffle. 

_He knows if he ever even gets to try / He’d bite down hard to make the monster cry / He knows if he ever even gets a chance / He'd sell his soul to make the monster dance_

If he can just forget about this morning, maybe he won’t spiral. Instead, he takes his time mixing potent, perfect pigments into white, wet plaster with one foot on the ladder. Matching them to the dusty greens and the sunset reds of the roses on the west wall. Watching solvent clear away spare dirt, none of it soaking in this time. Isak did a good job.

He finds himself on autopilot, which is a good place to be sometimes. When the plaster doesn’t mix into the pasty consistency he’s looking for, he grabs an egg from the kitchen and uses some of the yolk to stiffen it, adjusting the color as necessary. When he moves on to the purple berries of the laurel and the dark greens of the olives towards the ceiling, he sits on the floor and mixes new pigment, loading up his palette and pocketing some detail brushes.

And he gets through the album. Lets it fade into another one. Works his way from the bottom of the west wall all the way to the ceiling, carefully pressing down old, curling plaster with his gloved hand. Keeping it in place with a binder. Cleaning dirt as necessary and filling in the cracked spots of leaves and twigs and flowers, careful to not overlap the new plaster with the plaster still intact. It’s uniquely healing, the hours pass by unannounced. 

Even climbs down the ladder, sore arms from reaching above his head getting tingly with blood rushing back to his fingertips. He doesn’t notice Isak standing in the doorway to the room until he yanks out his headphones out, pushes his safety glasses on top of his head. 

Isak backtracks—tries to spin back in the room, but he’s caught, foot hovering as he turns on his heel and rubs his shoulder. That nervous body language Even’s picked up on. 

“Sorry,” Isak starts. “I was just watching.”

“It’s fine,” Even smiles. He feels useful, now. Gazing back up at the ceiling and feeling a burst of pride at the progress he’s made. The pale walls alive with the garden on the barreled ceiling. “I’ve done just about all I can do today, until the rain stops and we can go back to the lab.”

Isak looks up with him. “It’s pretty mesmerizing,” he notes. “Watching you work.”

The pride twists, it turns into something like a reciprocated joy—it’s no longer anything that feels isolated to himself because he’s thought nearly the same thing watching Isak get lost in the work. With that comment, the job feels much more shared than usual. On a level both of them can admire because they need each other to make it happen. Something that goes unnoticed when they work side by side, unable to really watch and appreciate. 

“It’s just, so far removed from what I do up there,” Isak continues. “You’re so…” he trails. “Calculated. And delicate.”

Isak looks back at Even, who takes in his stare before meeting it, sensing it trail up his body, feeling almost opaque. 

 

•

 

They wake up to more rain. It blots in fat bubbles against the window, the uniform sound a comforting white noise. It’s hard to tell what time it is when the sun’s position in the sky is indiscernible through the storm. 

Even knows Isak is awake, albeit barely. His breaths aren’t as long, as deep. A gentle snore through his nose has faded away. His eyes are closed, but fluttering. Neither of them move. It’s rare they wake up facing each other, and maybe they’re embarrassed. But Even would rather savor it—the feeling, the sound. An extra hour to sleep in with the comfortable, familiar weight of Isak beside him. The rush of nowhere to be. 

Even thinks it would be nice to hold him—to let the rain lull them back to their dreams. But he keeps his distance, a laughable inch of space between them. When he tries to get comfortable, the mattress squeaks. 

“I wonder when it will stop,” Isak whispers, talking about the rain.

Even can feel the air between them vibrate. “I should probably call Sonja,” he responds. He looks out the window in contempt and grabs his phone, not bothering to go out and try to get a better signal. After he dials her number, the line sounds with a few crackling rings before it gives out and drops the call. He sets it back down with a sigh—unbothered, really. She’ll just have to deal with it. They can’t control the weather. 

Isak yawns, rolls over on his back and rests his forearm, bent at the elbow, over his eyes. “I don’t feel like getting up, anyway,” he hums, smiling. His leg is touching Even’s now, in this new position—ankle over ankle—but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s almost deliberate.

There’s a polarizing tension in Even that seems to strain with every passing second—the ends pulling farther and farther away with no regard for the tightening middle. The urge to stay, to reciprocate Isak’s lazy energy and just give in a bit. The urge to get out of bed and avoid the thoughts bound to race if he doesn’t. Both are extremely tempting, neither are safe.

Isak drags his ankle up Even’s leg, and his brain has an adjacent thought. One that tugs him in a different direction. One that involves a lot more skin on skin. Their legs twisted up completely.

Shit. He feels his skin get hot. His lower body starts to stir. 

“Did you know someone died in here?” It’s the first thought that calms him down. 

Isak’s fast on his elbow, rolling to his side and propping himself up to look down at Even. A crease on his cheek from the crinkled sheets while he slept. Curls wild in every direction. Even would not mind waking up to something like this every damn day. It’s almost distracting enough to drag him back down the rabbit hole that seems to be his hot and heavy, early morning daydreams. 

“What?” Isak drops his jaw. “No.”

“That’s what Noora told me,” Even raises his eyebrows. “An old lady. I didn’t ask which room.”

Isak shivers, his arm holding his opposite shoulder as if to barricade his body. “Fuck. That’s freaky.” He shivers again, flops down. “I could have gone without knowing that, thanks,” he says sarcastically.

Even just waggles his eyebrows. “Well, I’m up now. Do you want tea?”

“Can you bring it to bed?” Isak asks, rolling to his stomach and spreading out on the sheets when Even gets up, relishing in the extra room. One long leg dangling off the side, the muscles of his shoulders moving under his skin.

But he’s back to lightly snoring when Even laughs under his breath, halfway out the door before taking a last, lingering look. 

He rinses their mugs in the kitchen sink, turns the blue one over in his hand, remembers Isak’s panicked expression fondly, and has a really dumb idea.

He shouldn’t do it, but Even can already see Isak’s face after the fact, and he starts to laugh at his own idea. It’s just too good.

And it’s about to be a long, boring day, anyway.

He makes his time in the kitchen believable—boils water for the tea, seeps it in Isak’s blue mug while he watches the rain outside soak the grapevines, flash flooding around the patio. And then he takes his own, empty mug and purposefully smashes it on the tile floor with a loud shatter—stone meeting stone—ceramic sharding in thick cuts as it spews out into the hall with accompanying ricochets. He hopes it was loud enough.

Quickly, he ducks into the passageway that leads from the kitchen to the backyard, crouching down out of sight. And, like clockwork, he hears a disheveled, dazed Isak come rushing in, bare feet slapping the tile. Then stopping. Even imagines him looking around the kitchen, down at the mess. His footsteps are slow, singular now, as he steps around the sharp pieces of broken ceramic.

“Even?”

Even tries to hold his breath, not to laugh.

“...Even?” It sounds a bit more fearful, right on queue. Closer now, too. Isak trailing farther into the kitchen, closer to the passageway.

From a peek behind the wall, Even can see Isak’s back facing him, looking around the kitchen, surveying the mess on the floor. And, carefully, he unfolds himself from his crouching position and stands—careful, silent, footsteps towards Isak, cold tile on his feet, until he pinches the left side of Isak’s waist, just a simple “boo” whispered in his right ear over his shoulder. 

Isak turns around with a quick, high-pitched scream, his fight or flight mode going with _fight_ and jabbing Even sharply with his elbow right in the gut. 

He doubles over, a little from the pain but mostly from laughing. He was right, Isak’s face was priceless—wide-eyed and terrified. 

And then relieved when he sees Even, catching his breath from the rush of adrenaline. And then a little shocked and a little pissed, but it’s not threatening on his face. Isak puts his hand on his heart—probably feeling it beat a million miles a minute—and smiles devilishly. 

“Fuck you,” he laughs when Even starts to stand up, crinkly eyes and laugh lines as he rubs his stomach, wincing. But it’s worth it.

“You should have seen your face,” Even wheezes, still gasping for air through each belly laugh. “Oh my god—”

Hand still on his heart, Isak leans into Even, the top half of his body pressed into his torso, forehead leaning against his shoulder. He sighs heavily, it’s laced with laughter. “Fuck that scared me. You set me up with that dead old lady story.”

“Er,” Even starts, his teeth gritting. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands, which are hovering hesitantly in the air around Isak, arms bent at the elbow—Isak still using him for support. “That wasn’t just a story. It’s true. Unless Noora lied to me, but I doubt it.”

Isak shudders, making no movement to get off Even, who decides to settle for a comforting pat on the head—Isak’s hair is so soft. He takes a selfish moment to comfortably card his fingers through it. “Are you really that scared?” Even asks, tilting his head down. 

“Honestly, this made me feel a little better,” Isak admits. He rocks back on his feet, composing himself with a huff while he peels away from Even. 

“Really?” Even raises an eyebrow, drops his hands down to his sides and wishes he seized the opportunity to pull Isak a little closer. 

“Yeah,” Isak backs up to the counter, carefully dancing around the broken mug on the tile and reaching for the intact one, full of tea. He takes a sip. “You’ve been so serious this whole time. It feels like there’s a person in there now,” he looks at Even’s chest, trails his eyes up to meet Even’s stunned ones, stinging a bit with salt—touching tears he feels in the back of his throat.

And Even feels it, too. For the first time in a long time. Like this shell of existence he’s been carrying around lately has a person in there now.

 

•

 

A loud crack of thunder shakes the sky while Even exhales a cloud of smoke out of the cracked bedroom window, ashing his cigarette on the sill. Isak stands beside him, soft shirt and shorts of his pajamas, looking up at the clouds which come alive with pink and red heat lightning as mid-day turns to late night. The rain, harder than before, dots where it can on the floor before Even shuts the window.

Another roll of thunder makes Isak stand on edge.

“I always liked storms,” Even states, sensing the tension and trying his best to dissolve it. It’s been silent all afternoon—Even playing his guitar, drawing careless circles in his sketchbook. Isak reading Even’s book he finished. Taking a long nap in the bed as the rain gently rocked them to sleep. The room is messy and lived in—clothes from days past scattered on the floor as they empty out their backpacks. “Always thought they were quite peaceful.” He looks up with Isak, tilting his head, the sky low as rain melts the distance between it and the land.

“They make me a little anxious,” Isak admits, white knuckles gripping the window sill before he rocks himself away. “I think I’m going to make tea. Would you like some?”

Even politely shakes his head, continues to watch the storm while Isak steps into the hallway. It’s definitely on the homestretch—the big finale before it passes. The thunder has grown louder within the hour, the lightning that precedes it almost in time with the sound. Hopefully, tomorrow they’ll wake up to clear skies.

Another clap of thunder. And another. A particularly loud one, the flash of lightning making it look like daytime for a split second—and then the lamp goes out. The hallway light. The kitchen light. Only another flash of lightning illuminates the room.

Luckily, Even’s phone still has a charge. He turns the flashlight on and sets it facedown on the dresser next to the lamp, its replacement.

“You know what’s better than tea?” Isak asks, rushing into the room a little shaken. He forces the cork out of the wine bottle from Noora Even never got rid of. “Getting drunk.” He takes a swig, sits on the floor with his back leaning against the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you to open this.”

Even sits next to him in solidarity, a comforting smile.

“I have a pet cat named _Ost._ I know how to drive. I used to dress like a douche.”

Confused, Even just raises one eyebrow at Isak with a little laugh. “Okay?”

“Two truths and a lie,” Isak explains, pulling his lips from the bottle and waving his hand in the air while he says it, as if it’s obvious. “We have to play something, otherwise I’m just going to chug this wine in a minute and then throw it up a minute later.”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to guess the lie?” Even asks.

“Yes,” Isak nods. He places the wine carefully between them, glass on the tile with a clink. “And if you don’t guess right on the first try, you have to drink. But if you _do_ guess right on the first try, _I_ have to drink.”

“Okay, um,” Even thinks. “You don’t seem like a cat guy, so I’ll go ahead and pick that one. You don’t have a cat.”

Isak makes a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong,” he smiles. _“Ost_ is a little shit, but he keeps me company back home.” He nudges the bottle to Even, who takes a swig. 

Sour wine with a small sip. He’s never liked it—never understood the people who claim they can taste _hints of oak_ or _notes of pine._ He calls bullshit.

“—and thanks for just assuming I used to dress like a douche, by the way,” Isak pretends to be offended.

“Was that the lie?” Even grimaces at the wine bottle while he sets it back on the floor, wiping his mouth.

“No,” Isak looks down at his knees, a shit eating grin on his face. “I definitely used to dress like a douche. Okay, your turn.”

Even taps his knee, thinks. Lately, he’s been an awfully private person, mostly because he thinks no one cares what he has to say. Tons of truths coagulate in his brain, trail down the back of his neck until he wants to spit them up like word vomit. “Okay,” he sighs. “Um. I’m saving myself until marriage. I’m bipolar. I identify as pansexual.”

“Damn,” Isak says under his breath, looking at Even heavily, an unsure smile on his face. “Two of those are the truth? Okay.” He looks up at the ceiling, head resting on the edge of the bed behind him while he thinks. “I’m going to go with the pansexual one.” There’s a glint in his eye like he picked that one on purpose, regardless of how true or not he thinks it is.

The corner of Even’s lip curls up in a smile like a weight has been lifted from his chest now that Isak knows. “Wrong,” he says softly, dropping his head back on the edge of the bed to match Isak, turning to face him. He clutches the wine bottle and sets it in Isak’s lap, waits for him to grasp it so it doesn’t fall before letting go.

Before lifting the bottle to his lips, Isak turns his head to meet his gaze, soft curls framing his face with their cheeks pressed against the sheets. Even watches him trace his eyes over his cheekbones. His jaw. His lips. Down his neck. Another clap of thunder makes him jolt, and he takes a generous drink.

“Yeah, that was dumb of me. No one who looks like you is still a virgin,” Isak scoffs, rolling his eyes. He takes another swig, unprompted.

Even feels his face get hot. Butterflies in his stomach drowned in red wine.

“Okay,” Isak trails, dragging out the word. He’s a little looser than before, despite another roll of thunder. “I met my best friend at a gay bar. I’ve had a threesome. I grew up religious.”

Even tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, looking up to the ceiling. He makes a thinking sound—a little hum. Imagines Isak wrapped around two other people and doesn’t like the twist in his stomach at the thought. “Do people really have threesomes? Nah. You’re bluffing.”

“Insulting.” Isak still has the bottle of wine in his hand, he lifts it up and points one of his fingers wrapped around it at Even. “But true. I’m not interested in one, anyway.” He takes another large drink. “Ok, go.”

“I’ve memorized the Quran,” Even gulps when he says it. “I was born overseas. I’ve had a crush on my best friend.”

“Been there,” Isak sighs. He looks over at Even, his sideways smile full of condolence but no pity. His eyes are soft with understanding. “I’m going to go with born overseas.”

Even reaches for the bottle in Isak’s lap, brushing their fingers together before lifting it. The position looks vaguely phallic, and the thought makes the blood in his body rush through his veins quicker. Even takes a swig, indicating Isak is right. The few drinks he’s had after this dry spell go straight to his head. “Your turn.”

Isak sighs, relaxes his neck back against the bed with a flop. “I’ve never slept with a woman,” he ticks off, holding up a finger. “I met my last boyfriend on grindr. I have an ex-girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Even says quickly with a nod, confident in his answer. He passes the wine back to Isak he’s so sure of it. Or maybe he wants to be sure of it.

Isak just raises his eyebrows. “Drink,” he commands, eyes alight with mirth and jaw dropped in tenacity. He closes it with a smile, his top teeth resting charmingly on his bottom lip.

“What’s the lie?” Even asks, pulling the bottle back towards himself and asking around a sip. He has a million more questions, but he doesn’t ask them.

“I never dated anyone from grindr,” Isak laughs. “Yikes,” he mouths, as if imagining that scenario. Another rumble of thunder cracks in the distance, and Isak takes the bottle from Even for a quick sip. Liquid courage, maybe. “Okay, it’s your turn.”

Even brings his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them and listens to the rain while he thinks. “My first kiss was with a boy. I’ve had more than a handful of one night stands. I’ve hooked up with Sonja.” He looks over at Isak after he says it, waiting for his response.

Isak smiles and pinches the bridge of his nose. He passes the bottle preemptively to Even, confident in his answer. “Sonja. Sonja Sonja Sonja. You are so bad at this game, c’mon. There’s no way.”

Even just sets the bottle back in Isak’s lap, a cheeky smile on his face.

“No,” Isak deadpans at him. “No! You have not. What is the lie, then?”

“The one night stands,” Even chuckles, enjoying Isak’s disgusted face quite fondly.

“So, more than once?” Isak squeaks. He chugs the wine, wiping his mouth when he’s done. He grimaces, and Even’s not sure if it’s from the sour taste or the thought of him wrapped up in the sheets with Sonja. Either way, his reaction makes Even smile at the hint of jealousy disguised with disgust.

“It’s your turn,” Even reminds him, a little nudge with his elbow. 

When Isak sets the bottle back down, the glow of Even’s flashlight from his phone cuts out. The room gets dark. Black shadows until Even’s eyes start to adjust.

“Shit,” Even says, wrapping his long legs under himself and standing up. “My phone must have died.” He snatches it from the top of the dresser and tries pressing the side button to light up the home screen, but it remains black. Only the rumbles of heat lightning out the window provide flickers here and there. “Yeah, dead,” he confirms, setting it down again and feeling his way back to the bed in the dark, sitting next to Isak on the floor against it.

Even takes a sip from the wine, almost gone, and waits for Isak’s turn. He feels him rest his head back against the sheets and follows his motion. With a little gleam of lightning, farther away as the storm passes over them, he sees Isak turn his head to face him.

The darkness wraps them up quietly—daring, almost. Bravery embodies the space between them. And an ache, like a wish, feels as if it’s at the very edge of Even’s grasp. He suffers through it, stretches his fingers. Needs one last sign to stand on his tiptoes and reach it.

“I think I have a little crush on you. I’ve flown a purple unicorn to the moon. I want to kiss you.” It’s just a whisper.

So much so, Even wonders if he heard him correctly. The butterflies drowning in his stomach scream for mercy. Deafening. “You always put your lies in the middle,” Even states, all of his nerves coming alive, his cells swelling. He can feel them all, individually. The anticipation is tangible, like he could grab the space between them and hold it. Throw it away.

“What?” Isak asks.

“Your lies,” Even clarifies with a little cough, although he’s not quite sure how his brain, his vocal chords, are able to make words right now. “You always do truth. Then lie. Then truth.”

“Oh?” Isak smiles, the dull glow of far away lightning just in time for Even to see it. “Is that what gave me away?”

Even swallows the lump in his throat—the same lump he’s swallowed before he kissed other boys. The one that warns him not to do it, the one that warns him he might spiral if things go terribly wrong. “Yeah,” he nods softly, and before he can stop himself, the word is lost over their lips when he kisses him.

It’s like a slow injection of heroin. An easy pleasure that doubles with each second—everything is stimulated and heavy and one beat behind. Isak immediately exhales and melts into it—relieved—and then it gets very serious, very fast.

They lose themselves. Isak’s in his lap. Their shirts get strewn to the floor, discarded with a messy throw over their heads. Even isn’t embarrassed about the sound he makes when Isak opens his mouth and their tongues meet. Tastes like wine, but this time Even likes the flavor. His hands feel so good on his body, like they’re unafraid. Like they’ve been waiting to touch him. As if they’ve memorized the map of his skin, as if they want to take care of him.

Even holds Isak’s face after the initial rush, feels their jaws open and close while their lips slide together under his fingers. Traces his thumb over his cheeks, down his chin, along the sides of his neck. Rustles his hands back up through Isak’s curls and grips ever so lightly. He takes his time touching Isak now that he’s allowed to, and he tries to focus on every part of them joined. Their laps. Their hands. Their lips. It all feels like the most incredible high. He has no idea how much time has passed—feels like seconds, but Even wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him hours.

Their lips part, and Isak kisses Even’s cheek, fat and wet and sloppy as he catches his breath. Like he’s been starving. Starts to kiss his neck, and Even leans back to let him, beginning to feel light-headed. His lower half heavy, his stomach pooling.

He wants Isak but he doesn’t know how to ask. So he just reciprocates.

When Isak bites the skin of his neck, Even swallows a sound, hoping Isak can feel the vibrations. When he smooths his palm down Even’s chest, right over his nipple, Even spreads his legs. Bends his knees up. Lets Isak sink farther into his lap. Makes no show of hiding he’s turned on by him. When Isak breaks away to kiss his lips again, he hums right into it. Trails his hands down Isak’s sides until they’re resting on his hips. Tentatively gripping the back of his thighs and skimming his hands over his ass until they’re resting on his naked lower back. (Which might have been a mistake, Even’s on the verge of losing his breath—of blacking out. Isak feels absolutely heavenly.)

The motion makes Isak stall in place, compose himself. He shifts his hips—the friction unbearable—Even feels Isak’s cock heavy in his lap, lining up with his own. He squirms a little, just to feel it, eyes closed as their foreheads rest against each other.

“Can I go down on you?” Isak asks. Even senses the hesitation in his question, like one wrong move and everything might fall apart.

But it excites him. Even feels his own cock stir at the thought of it—and Isak must feel it, he leans in again, noses bumping, smiles over a slow kiss to the corner of Even’s mouth.

He nods. “Yeah,” Even mouths, wishing there was a stronger, less desperate word he could use. One that would let Isak know how much he wants him without seeming so frantic. He’s forgotten how to be sexy.

That is, until Isak makes him feel like the most delicious thing on earth. He slips out of his lap, ushers Even to sit on the edge of the bed. Leans over him and takes his time kissing every inch of Even’s torso. His collarbones, his nipples, his sides. Down to where his shorts rest on his hips. Isak trails a hesitant hand along the hem, slowly reaches in them and wraps his fingers around Even’s cock while he sucks a hickey on his hip bone. There’s a little sigh that escapes him when he strokes up and down lightly, taking in Even’s length.

Even’s never felt more attended to, never felt more important. He’s so impatient, but he can’t imagine not letting Isak take his time, acting like he’s a treasure. He feels like one, with Isak’s hands. Lips. Eyes. Each part of him a tiny _I see you._

“Are you ready?” Isak asks, half-sarcastic. Even can feel him smile against his skin, his dick giving a light jump in Isak’s hand a sure indicator.

Messy movements, both of them grab Even’s short and boxers, pushing them down until they’re around Even’s ankles.

When Isak swallows him down, he’s the vocal one. Even’s cock hits the back of Isak’s throat, and he moans quietly, the vibrations everywhere on Even’s body multiplying the sensation. He leans back on his elbow, still propped up so he can watch Isak—dropped to his knees with his head between Even’s legs.

The sight alone is what’s going to send him over the edge. Gently, Even threads his fingers through the curls behind Isak’s ear and lets his hand rest there.

Isak slides his mouth back, curling his tongue around the tip. He’s unfairly good at this, almost like he knows it. But Even doesn’t begrudge him for the teasing, he’s never had someone so focused on working him up, on turning him on, on making him feel so good.

When Isak picks up the pace, adding his hand at the base of his lips to extend the motion, Even feels his insides melt, solidifying in his lower stomach. He lets out a whine he can feel Isak smile at, so he stops swallowing his sounds. Sharp inhales, high gasps, little noises that bubble up in his throat and slip past his lips.

Those just make Isak louder. He breathes heavy every time his mouth slides up to the base of Even’s cock, moans every time time Even does. He pops off at the tip, just swirling his tongue under the head as he catches his breath. He strokes his hand up and down while he rests, everything wet and slick from his mouth—Even doesn’t want to think about how close he is. But it’s a good time to warn Isak, maybe.

“You can—I’m gonna—” Even stammers, definitely not full sentences. He doesn’t have the thought process for that right now. He hopes Isak gets it.

And he does, probably. He uses one hand to reach up and pull Even closer by the hip, taking him back in his mouth as he hugs what little of him he can.

Even feels his toes curl, his knees and elbows go soft, an intense rush of pleasure in his lap and deep in his stomach shooting up his spine to behind his eyes, which fall shut. He lets his mouth open with it, says Isak’s name with it. Doesn’t know it’s over until Isak is out of breath, kissing up his thigh. His middle. His chest his neck his cheek. It all feels like one fluid movement, moment. Isak lightly cups Even’s jaw with his hand and turns his face to kiss him, breathless.

Even tastes himself on Isak, tangible evidence that what happened really did just happen. He’s so slack he can barely pucker his lips to kiss Isak back, eyelids glued shut with the drowsy weight that comes after a high. His whole body pulsing delicately.

It’s sublime. When Even finally opens his eyes, Isak’s looking at him, all of him, like he doesn’t know where to look first. Even rests his head in his hand, preens into it and looks back at him. Pats his chest as he collapses into bed, tugging Isak down with him like he has no other choice.

Isak kisses him again, like he’s not done. Missed ones on the corner of Even’s mouth. Soft ones on his temple. Gentle ones on his lips.

He kisses him until Even falls asleep.

 

•

 

Pulsing temples. Achy eyes. Dry mouth. Even wakes up alone with a minor hangover. The rain is gone, sun streams through the window and saturates his skin—thin eyelids and sweaty shoulders. It surely doesn’t help his headache. It takes a slow dawning to fully remember what happened last night, but the details are crystal clear once the haze starts to dissipate. The kiss, its evolution. Lips and hands all over Even’s body, Isak enjoying it maybe more than he did. Dazed, he pats the sheets next to him, looking for Isak. When his eyes adjust, he sees he’s not in the room at all.

His head doesn’t catch up with his body when he sits up, so Even brings his knees to his chest and rests his forehead against them. He didn’t drink that much, he just needs some water. Some food. Wine is known for the worst morning afters. But first, all he wants to do is find Isak. The fact he isn’t here makes nausea bubble in his intensites, up his throat. And not from the drinking.

The cold tile on his feet when he manages to sling his legs over the side of the bed is a relief. In fact, Even lays on the floor for a minute, letting the chilly stone permeate his skin, past his muscles to his bones. He rests his forehead against it. His temples. His ankles and knees.

When he starts to feel more composed, he gets up—creaky, dehydrated joints until he’s on his feet again, walking through the doorway past the foyer into the kitchen.

“The power is still out,” Isak notes, turning around when he hears Even amble in, “but the stove still has gas.” He dips a tea bag in and out of his steaming mug. He takes a sip before handing it to Even, who takes it apprehensively. “I was just about to come back to bed.”

Isak seems all too chill—it’s teetering on an edge Even can’t decipher. Does he not want to talk about last night? Forget it happened completely—move on like adults who have to continue working together professionally after a hookup (was that all it was, a hookup?). Or is Isak trying to diffuse the situation, make the air around them comfortable, as if nothing has changed. That they can continue on like this—simultaneously friends and lovers. Even wonders if he should say something, but he just continues to turn Isak’s blue mug in his hands. Doesn’t take a sip. He feels frozen with the memory of last night and how much he enjoys it, tries to hold on to it before his mind convinces him it’s all falling apart.

It’s hard to know, brain pulling him in a million different directions. Shamelessly, Even opens the drawer by the sink and unscrews the cap of his prescription, palm to his mouth as he swallows one pill with a sip of tea. He doesn’t look at Isak after he puts the bottle back in the drawer.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Isak decides, pursing his lips and looking down, then up again at Even. Lingering before taking a backward step towards the passageway that leads to the backyard. He waits again before turning around completely.

Even doesn’t know if it’s an invitation or an excuse. He feels his stomach churn. Looks back to last night and wishes he could read this whole situation better. If it was a tipsy mistake or the liquid courage they needed to take a stumbly step forward in the right direction. Either way, it made Even feel alive, like his old self. Confident in his actions and sexy in his skin and undefined by any sort of label.

That’s just how Isak makes him feel. A constant reminder, promoter, and supporter of all Even knows he embodies. Isak sees it in him when Even can’t see it in himself.

He shakes his shoulders, his arms his hands his fingers. Loosens up and looks down at himself and remembers he’s the same Even. The same Even who went to Bakka and made stupid movies with queer characters for his communications classes without giving a fuck what other people would say. The same Even who survived heartbreak when his best friend didn’t love him back. The same Even who found the courage to move away for university so he had the best shot of doing what he loved. The same Even who decided to get help—the same Even who decided to keep living.

He’s strong as hell.

Shed clothes trailing from the sink to the door in the passageway that leads outside, Even gets naked when he hears the shower turn on. Creaks the door open. Hot sun in the sky but he can feel the cold water in the air. Isak has his eyes closed, running his hands through his hair—his body elongated and strong under it. Even steps out and stands outside of the stream, feet on the wet pavement with freezing drops splashing up to hit him on the ankles.

“Can I join you?” He asks, and Isak opens his eyes. He’s hard to read—flustered, relieved, Even can’t tell. He licks his bottom lip and only takes his hand, pulls Even under the water with him. Close. Not touching but close.

Even wants to kiss him, so he does. Gentle this time, trying to convey the soberness of it. That he is making this decision on his own, that what Isak said last night, if true, is mutual. Face in his hands, it’s just as pent up as last time. The kiss is only gentle for so long before Isak parts his lips open with an easy sigh, letting their tongues meet. Water getting into their mouths.

In the midst of it, Even slides his hands from Isak’s cheeks down his neck, over the plane of his chest before his arms are wrapped around his waist, bringing him closer until their fronts are flushed and their legs slot together. He feels Isak smile as they make out, and it’s the sexiest part of it. That, or how he feels Isak start to get turned on, getting harder against his leg with no shame. Moving slowly as the kiss deepens to get some friction.

The water is getting annoying. Even wants to see him, to hear him, to feel him uninterrupted. He untangles himself from Isak, a small, disappointed whine to follow before he takes him by the hand and drags him inside, barely shutting the door before dropping to his knees on the cool tile of the passageway, pushing Isak against the wall. 

Water droplets drip from their bodies and hit the floor in a chorus of wet echoes.

Isak whimpers just at that, at Even kissing the insides of his thighs—the muscle of his hip that meets his waist—like there’s no time left. Even feels Isak’s legs start to shake in anticipation, barely able to stand. It sounds so good Even wants to prolong it, not ready for the sounds that might come when he’s finally brave enough to go down on him.

He feels Isak’s fingers thread through the back of his wet hair. Impatient. But not overly so. They glide over his ear, his jaw, at the nape of his neck. Even looks up for a moment, ready, to find Isak looking back down at him, eyes marveling. He’s a mixture of that nervous body language Even has taken note of combined with a craving he can’t control.

Even makes sure to keep looking when he takes Isak in his mouth, but his eyes flit closed at the weight of him on his tongue, at the way his knees go weak when he slides his lips up to the base, hand gripping the part of his thigh that meets his ass.

Really, Even just wants to make him feel good. To let Isak know this isn’t one sided. To maybe communicate that nothing was a mistake—their words, their actions. That this morning is sobering in more ways than one.

Even takes his time, enjoys every long slide of Isak’s cock in and out of his mouth, listening to him hold his breath and let it out again in a stuttered whimper whenever he gets to the tip. Savors the steadying of Isak’s leg when he slides his hand down to the back of his knee, feeling it stabilize.

Isak starts to stutter something, so Even pauses—licks a stripe up his cock, lightly puts his lips over the head and tastes his precum. Because he wants Isak to feel good, sure, but he doesn’t want to stop. He uses his free hand to touch him, gripping lightly at the base before stroking all the way up and delighting in the sound that comes out of Isak—low, from somewhere deep in his throat. He starts to stutter again. “I think—”

Even knows the feeling. It doesn't really matter what's said in the midst of it, Even realizes Isak’s about to come. He can feel him tremble, feel his composure go limp, feel his cock start to pulse in his hand. Frantic, Even kisses every inch of him while he comes kind of on the floor, kind of on Even’s chest—his knees and thighs and sides, that little divot by his groin. He says Even’s name when he comes, says it loudly. Slides his back down the wall as his collectiveness falls apart and Even has to hold him up.

Isak’s a mess when he’s done. Drunk eyes for an entirely different reason—low eyelids, slack jaw. Even feels him look at him when he rises, has to keep him in place so he doesn’t sink. Pins him there with a kiss that feels much deserved, relaxed smiles as it dawns on them. Isak keeps his eyes open through it and looks at Even like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. Luck and love behind his eyes—Even’s seen it on other gazes before, but never ones directed at him.

Isak finds some energy, kisses him back with eyes falling shut in a peacefulness that isn’t necessarily out of place for the scenario, but delightfully unexpected. It makes Even feel warm all over to make someone else feel this way. He’s not very good at letting go of the past or stopping his brain from whizzing into the future—but right now, he’s content with this moment. He lets it consume him—it’s only Isak. And that’s all that matters.

“Hello?” It certainly brings them back to earth; It’s a woman’s voice, Even hears it as the front door groans open. And Even feels stones in his stomach drop to his feet. That kind of horror that freezes him in place when he’s caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

Still for a second, then jolting to action, Even frantically puts on his own boxers lying where he left them by the back door, throws his shorts at Isak, and desperately wipes the come off his chest with his shirt, crumpling it in the corner of the passageway when he’s done. They look at each other, as if trying and failing to read each other’s minds. Isak takes two steps back towards the patio but Even turns him around when he hears footsteps in the kitchen, shoving him out there. He follows with crossed legs and crossed arms over his crotch to hide his boner, still very much turned on from what he was doing to Isak.

Noora’s looking around, trailing a hand along the countertop by the sink. When her eyes settle on them, they light up in excitement before scrunching with confusion, a wise smile on her red lips. Eva’s not too far behind her.

She coughs politely. “Hello,” Noora greets in English, white teeth biting her bottom lip. “Erm. We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to barge in, just no one answered,” she falters on the last word, trying to put the scene in front of her together, trying to be courteous of their space. “We can come back later?”

“No,” Even shakes his head. “That’s fine. We just, uh, slept in.”

“Why are you both wet?” Eva smirks, and Noora turns her head with wide eyes and a tight jaw, a little unsettled and a little annoyed.

“Shower,” Isak blurts. “I took a shower.”

Eva nods once—big—a fat smile on her face. Noora pinches her side when she opens her mouth to say something else.

“We just came by to check-in,” Noora interrupts whatever Eva was about to say, short and to the point, obviously trying to backpedal with every word. “Sonja called me and said she hasn’t heard from you in a few days, and that when she tries to call, it goes straight to voicemail.”

“The power went out,” Even explains. “It’s still out, I think. We were going to go into town as soon as it stopped raining.”

“Yeah,” Noora acknowledges, “I think Sonja was just worried. And she just wanted me to check on you. Maybe call her. I can send someone about the power.” She takes a step back after every concise sentence, dragging Eva with her who keeps shooting coy glances between the two of them.

Even nods. “Of course. Yeah. Isak can charge our phones at the lab and I’ll call her.”

“Great,” Noora smiles a plastic, uncomfortable smile, halfway down the hall by now. “The foyer looks fantastic, by the way!” She calls. The front door clicks closed loudly behind her.

Even leans into Isak when the coast is clear, letting out a groan into his shoulder. “Great. I have an erection and come smeared all over my chest and you look freshly fucked. That wasn’t embarrassing at all.”

Isak runs his fingers through his hair, and it’s the best stress reliever. “It’s fine,” he comforts. “We should probably go to town,” he hums against Even’s temples. “After one thing.”

“What?” Even asks, unsuspecting.

Isak sneaks his hands down Even’s sides, hooks his fingers into his boxers and slips them down when they catch on his knuckles. “Let me take care of that for you.”

 

•

 

Even wonders if there is a graceful way to move quickly.

It’s a word that describes all kinds of great things. Quick to forgive. Quick to apologize. Quick to respond and quick to move on. Quick to recover. Quick to learn.

But it’s also akin to hastily. Hurriedly. Fleetingly. _Briefly._

He can’t help but worry karma or fate or some uncontrollable force of the universe put them together under the wrong conditions.

Even looks down at Isak, asleep on his chest, and questions what it might be like if it took a year to get here. If they met back home. If months and months of random bump-ins and flirting preceded Even nervously asking for his number. If he doubted himself to death over what to wear on their first date. If he first saw Isak undressed after their third. Or fourth or fifth. If Isak’s even that kind of guy. If he stressed over messages left on read, double texting, accidentally liking an instagram from three months ago. If things are meant to move slowly for a reason.

Because things done quickly, well. They never last. 

“Good morning,” Even murmurs when Isak starts to stir, his own voice cracking with the first word of the day. 

He’s still got his painting clothes on, and there’s some in Isak’s hair. On his cheek. Greens and reds and some golds that blend in with his curls. They didn’t take a moment to get ready for bed after catching up on work yesterday—passing out after Isak almost fell off the ladder with droopy eyes—not that some make out sessions didn’t put them behind regardless.

Isak only hums, but it’s pleasant. He takes note of where he is, burying his nose in the worn, old collar of Even’s shirt and moving to wrap both arms around him. The comforting pressure of his chest, the hairs on his legs brushing against Even’s knees, the warm air on Even’s neck as Isak breathes through his nose. He could stay right here forever and then Even wouldn’t have to think about words like _quickly._ If he can savor the slow moments, maybe it’ll all even out. 

“Should I get up and make breakfast?” Even asks. Isak only keeps him rooted in place with strong arms when he tries to move. It gives him a bit of an ego—a reassuring tug that Isak might be thinking the same exact thought, but a well deserved one, he thinks. Even smiles up at the ceiling and cradles his arms around Isak’s shoulders. Kisses the top of his head. He’s back to snoring in a second, and Even can only laugh. 

“Let’s sleep in a little please,” Isak says on an exhale, half asleep. 

“What time do you have to be at the lab?” Even asks calmly, using one hand to rub his back under his shirt. His skin is warm from the sun, and if Even wasn’t trying to savor this, he’s technically a little too hot for comfort with the added body heat on top of him. 

“Nine,” Isak whines, like he doesn’t want to think about it. “What time is it now?”

Even reaches over to the chair beside the bed and pulls his phone away from the charger, pressing the side button to see the clock. “A little after eight,” he states, setting it back down and wrapping his arms around Isak again, his elbows bent over his middle, flat palms resting on the skin of his sides. He feels Isak’s rib cage expand with sleepy inhales, feels his heart beating somewhere against his stomach. “If you want breakfast we should get up.”

Isak lifts his head to look at him, foggy eyes and tousled hair, lines from sleeping hard on the crumpled sheets on the side of his cheek. He scoots up so his face is level with Even’s, presses their foreheads together. 

It still catches Even off guard, the proximity of him. Simultaneously in his arms and yet too far away for him to hold. The last few days hardly seem real, and yet Even doesn’t remember how life was bearable without them. 

“We’ll get breakfast in town,” Isak settles, leaning in to kiss Even on the cheek. Another on the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just make out.” He says the last word over an open kiss to his lips. 

Even moves his hands to hold his face, thumbs on his jaw and fingers threading through the curls by his ear. Unconsciously, he smiles. His whole face gets heavy in a sort of sleepy pleasure when their tongues meet. That heaviness settles in his lungs, too. Every time they part away to breathe it’s only for necessity’s sake. 

Isak ruffles up Even’s shirt so he can pull him closer by the waist, the skin of their stomachs flat against each other in their embrace. They kiss lazy and wet, not in any sort of dignified rhythm.

It feels like one of those mornings with a lover Even’s only seen on TV, the scenes he’d scoff at. Perfectly white, crisp sheets. Sun strewn through the curtains in an elegant glow. Somehow the actors have perfect hair and makeup and no morning breath at all. And right now it’s not like that—not even close. The sheets haven’t even been washed since they’ve got here, the sun isn’t filtered—rather magnified—through hot glass panes. And they’ve got remnants of paint and last night’s dinner on their dirty clothes. And yet here he is, finally understanding where the writers must pull their inspiration from. Only it’s so much better in the raw.

“We need to get ready,” Even insists when Isak makes a move to get further on top of him and straddle him completely, his head getting light with the motion. 

Isak ignores him. In this new position, Even feels him—half hard—slowly rocking against his thigh. Isak kisses his neck, continues to move over him, and Even watches the muscles of his middle define as he holds himself up. 

Fuck he’s hot.

It’s so tempting to skip work today. But he manages to swim through his own pool of thoughts, collecting in his brain before they drain down to his morning wood.

“Isak,” Even warns, but that only seems to egg him on. “Isak,” he says again. “Later.”

Isak sits up, love drunk and pouty. He pecks Even on the lips and wrinkles his nose before swinging his legs off the bed.

Even adjusts himself before getting up, and Isak looks him over and smirks, shedding his shirt for a new one.

The ride into town is peaceful—it always is, but coupled with the morning they just had it is especially so. The green hills whip by them; the cypress trees in the distance look like miniature mountains. Little white clouds that wouldn’t look too out of place in a Monet painting freckle the light blue sky, which looks vast and far away from the earth. Even drives easy and feels Isak rest his head against his back, feels his arms tight around his waist. All of these slow moments etch themselves into the slab of his brain, and he knows only the erosion of time will fade them away after years and years and years if somehow this all slips through his fingers in little pebbles. 

Isak squeezes him when they park, and Even dawdles in the piazza as he finds his bag in the top case and rushes towards the university lab, taking a seat outside at his usual bar under his usual umbrella. They bring him a cappuccino freddo and a cornetto without even asking. 

He doodles shrimps in his sketchbook—raindrops, bottles of wine, a Vespa and a bee.

Isak’s back exactly an hour later, black bag hoisted up on his shoulder. He slings it over the end of his chair when he takes a seat across from Even, reaching for the pastry left unbitten for him. Even smiles fondly when he takes a big bite.

“I was thinking about going home this weekend,” Isak says over a mouthful, licking his lips and washing it down with a sip of Even’s coffee.

“Home?” Even asks, confused. His muscles start to tighten. He can feel the lactic acid burn through them like he’s just sprinted a mile.

“Yeah,” Isak clarifies, unbothered. “I’ve left Ost with Magnus for like, two weeks, so, one of them has probably killed the other by now.” He licks his fingers in a very stereotypical kind of way, voiding them of crumbs. “Are you craving anything? Snacks I can bring back?”

Even relaxes, unaware he was so tense as he realizes Isak didn’t mean home for good. 

And Isak notices, watches his shoulders ease and his breathing resume. “I just want to check in on him is all,” Isak clears up, although Even is confused on whether he is talking about Ost or Magnus, whoever that is. “And run some errands. But I still have to finish up the rest of the east wall, should only take a couple more days after I get back.”

Even nods, a little disoriented at the way the morning is shaping out to be with this news—all the questions it brings and all of the details he realizes he doesn’t know about Isak.

“So, do you want anything?” Isak prods, genuine. Even doesn’t have the heart to let his own disappointment at a weekend without him seep through.

It’s a selfish thought, anyway. “No,” Even fakes his best, most nonchalant smile. “I’m good.”

 

•

 

_He calls me from the cold / Just when I was low, feeling short of stable / And all that he intends / And all he keeps inside, isn't on the label / He says he's ashamed / And can he take me for a while? / Can I be a friend, we'll forget the past / But maybe I'm not able / And I break at the bend / We're here and now, but will we ever be again? / 'Cause I have found / All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade / Away again_

He’s sulking, and he knows it. Sunday morning, strumming _Shimmer_ at half tempo in a minor key and singing out loud this time, just above a whisper. Even changes the pronouns of the song to further the wallowing.

He’s done all the work he could yesterday, thankful for the distraction. _Fashion Nugget_ on full blast, repeat. He can dance to it and it makes no sense and it’s perfect. He could have spread the work out over two days, but the impulse that raged from early morning to late night couldn’t have slowed him down if he tried, his brain a livewire calmed only from the detailed work at hand. He pushes peeling plaster back in place. Spends copious amounts of time matching colors perfectly and restoring the roses. Pockets all his tools and let’s the perfectionism in him override. And the progress he’s made settles a satisfaction deep in his bones, a quiet confidence that doesn’t come from words or looks or other’s opinions. A confidence that’s hard to find but worth the effort.

The foyer is beautiful, almost complete. But the villa is a shell. The tile floors and the high ceilings and the fossil doors are drained of any character they once had to him. It’s large and looming and empty, ten times more so than when he first arrived; it’s like a childhood home that’s been stripped of the title. Even can’t even pretend to feel the ghost of the woman who passed away. 

He wishes he could not care—wishes he could stop being so overly dramatic about two days. But it’s the not knowing that kills him. Especially when just as it feels like he really started to think he knew who Isak was, maybe he didn’t at all.

But maybe that thought is teetering on overly dramatic as well.

There’s a knock on the front door, and it startles him. He palms the strings of his guitar to stop the reverb in its place, setting it on the bed and padding through the hallway to the foyer to peek through the keyhole and see who it is. 

Noora looks almost more relieved than Even when he opens the door, like she was expecting another half-naked disaster. Eva’s beside her, and an older man Even has never seen before. She steps in to hug him, the echoey entryway a little less so with all the bodies, kissing him on both cheeks before her jaw drops, head tipped up to the ceiling. 

“It looks fantastic,” Noora mouths excitedly, looking to Eva for approval, who nods in agreement and places a kind hand on Even’s elbow. “Sorry,” Noora shakes back to reality, collecting herself. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Even, this is Julian, the owner of the villa. He just wanted to stop by and see the progress.”

“Nice to meet you,” Even says in English and shakes his hand. It’s pretty clear the language barrier might stop them from communicating any further. 

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Eva asks, “where’s Isak?”

Even rubs the back of his neck and looks around, as if he’s wondering the same thing. If Isak is walking through Grünerløkka or getting coffee at Kaffebrenneriet—if his apartment is In Deichman’s gate or somewhere around Uranienborgparken. If he’s with Magnus, whoever the hell that is. He tries not to think about it. “He went home for the weekend,” Even tells her. 

Noora puts on a disappointed pout. “Shame, I really wanted Julian to meet you both.” In Italian, she leans over to him and explains something, a quick shake of the head. “Well, I’m just going to take him through the house so we can go over what’s been done and what still needs to be done, if you don’t mind,” Noora smiles politely, says something in Italian again and leaves Even and Eva in the foyer. 

When their footsteps dissipate up the stairs, she starts to giggle.

“What?” Even asks, looking down at Eva—her cherry hair and her pink cheeks. His heart lifts a little when he remembers this is Noora’s wife. How different she is from her, highlighted from his first impressions of them arriving at the villa—neat Fiat and dusty Vespa—to now, Noora so buttoned up and professional until she lets Eva tie her back down to earth. How obvious it is she sees their differences and relishes in them. How she needs those differences. 

It gives him hope. That different is good. That differences often collide to make something beautiful and unique. 

“Nothing,” Eva smiles, although she’s just trying to be polite. “Are you going to miss it here?” She asks, looking up to the ceiling. “You really did do a fantastic job.”

Even looks up with her. The painted columns, the plastered roses. Bluish greens and dusty olives a canopy above on the barrelled ceiling—a gradient thinning to the pale yellow walls that reach the tile. He remembers the time spent under it, with good music and Isak on the other end. And yes, he will miss that. He’s not quite sure if in a bittersweet way he’s missing it already. “Yeah,” Even says, first unsurely. “Yeah.” And then again more confident. “You know how sometimes, things don’t really go the way you planned—like you have this idea in your head about how everything is supposed to be and how it’s supposed to turn out…” he trails, looking over to her. “But you start moving along and nothing is how you thought it would be? That really, you don’t have control over much?”

Eva takes a last lingering look at the ceiling before meeting Even’s eyes. “Getting deep on me,” she kids, the air just a bit lighter. “But yes, I do. It took me a long time to find myself, and convincing myself once I had was the hardest part.”

“Yeah,” Even agrees. “It’s one of those things. And I will miss this place—I think mainly because now that it’s almost done, I have no idea what’s happening next.”

And it’s true. Time feels like an expanding bubble about to pop, the safe space inside it exposed to the chaos of the rest of the world. Big and busy and so far removed from the tiny home that was made here with Isak, if only for a few weeks. Real life isn’t like this, and he knows it. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t real life, either. It’s just one of the shorter, better parts of it. 

“You mean with Isak?” Eva asks. The knowing in her voice isn’t complacent or standoffish—there’s compassion in it. 

Even nods, the _yes_ he’s swallowed through a hot lump in his throat obvious. It pushes behind his eyes, tightens his cheeks, but he blinks away the wetness. “Everything just happened so fast,” He explains, and while anxious, it feels good to get it off his chest. To finally say it out loud. “And it sucks because I really like him, and if maybe it happened in another way it wouldn’t just zip by. I feel like we are dancing on no foundation.”

Eva looks at him, polite doubt in her sideways smile. “Do you think maybe if it didn’t happen this way, it would still happen?”

Honestly, he has no idea. 

“You can always backpedal,” Eva shrugs. “Hell, you’ll probably have to when you go back home, anyway.” She rests a comforting hand on his back, a little soothing circle. “I doubt this is the first weekend you’ll spend apart.”

“You’re right,” Even relaxes a bit, and they both turn their heads toward the stairs when they hear two pairs of footsteps slowly stepping down. 

“Sometimes things happen so slowly,” Eva seems to reminisce, watching Noora laugh with Julian at the landing before heading back to the foyer. “And sometimes, well, they don’t. But if the connection is there, it’s going to take a lot more than just speed to break it.”

“Julian says he’s thrilled,” Noora says to Eva, not quite interrupting but rather inserting herself gracefully into the silence. “And the foyer is his favorite part,” she makes sure to note, smiling kindly at Even. 

“What exactly does he plan to do with the space?” Even asks her. 

“Airbnb,” she sighs, but her smile stays intact. “TripAdvisor. You know, renting for holidays and such. I think he said he’d spend the spring here, maybe. And there will be some unavailability when Uffitzi needs the space for private events.” She leans over to Julian and reiterates what she just explained to Even. “Isak will be back tomorrow to help finish up?” She confirms with a little inflection. 

“Yeah, tomorrow morning,” Even nods. 

Noora smiles and looks down, knowing. “Okay, well good luck,” she cheers, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ears. “And have fun.”

Eva nudges him with her elbow at that before they slowly step back towards the front door, hand lingering on the knob before taking a last look around. She’s the last out, turning around to Even and smiling. 

He mouths a genuine _thank you_ to her and watches them leave. This time, not so lonely. 

 

•

 

Even waits for Isak in Prato on Monday morning after an early train from Florence. He was late to meet him before he had to rush off to the lab, so Even sits in the piazza like always, cappuccino freddo and cornetto while he waits. He buys a newspaper he can’t read. Bounces his knees in anticipation under the table and feels each minute elapse slowly into an hour. 

And even in the uncertainty of it all, when he sees Isak walking toward him from the other end of the street—weighted down with his backpack—he can’t help but smile. He looks better than Even remembers, if that’s possible. Relaxed in a kind of way only a weekend at home can bring.

Those two days sure did feel a lot longer. It’s hard to pretend they don’t matter in the scheme of it, feeling like a large percentage of their time.

“How is Ost?” Even asks Isak before he takes a seat across from him. He tries to sound as normal as possible—tries to not smile like an idiot at just the sight of him. He doesn’t really know where to start with all of the questions he has—the important ones and the selfish ones; the mundane ones and the technical ones—doesn’t know how to blend friendly into serious.

Isak drops his stuff, beaming. Under the shade of the umbrella he rests his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his curls before he takes a seat and ritually finishes the cornetto on Even’s plate. “Well, Magnus didn’t kill him,” Isak laughs, leaning back. He crosses his ankle over his knee. “So, that’s good I guess.”

His body language is the opposite of nervous, and given the prior circumstances, Even doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. If he should be making him nervous or not. 

Even sure is. 

“And he didn’t kill Magnus?” Even jokes, which brings a sideways smile out of him.

“No,” Isak laughs, shaking his head. “I did take a picture of him, though, so you could see what he looks like.” He rifles his phone out of his pocket and swipes, turning it around so Even can see.

“Oh, you mean the cat,” Even laughs, relieved and grinning at the blonde tabby with bright yellow eyes on the screen.

Isak just squints his eyebrows at him, an impish smile twisting his top lip to make it extra pointy. “Did you think I meant Magnus?” He asks, laughing to himself before pocketing his phone. He finishes Even’s coffee in one last swig and clicks the glass back down on the saucer. “Ost is much cuter. You ready to go? Thanks for coming to get me.”

Even purposefully and not so subtly goes about half speed on the way back to the villa, delighting in Isak’s hands on his stomach and his front pressed against his back while the Vespa hums under them. His chin on his shoulder. He makes no movement of holding on any less—a good sign.

Really, Even just wants to be wrapped up in him—and well, this is pretty close.

It’s sadly saccharine how in sync they are—Even shoves the kickstand down with his heel when they round up the grounds to the villa, Isak slips away to get his bag from the top case, and they walk up the hill. Two gears of a mechanism. 

The groundskeeper must have came by when they were gone—the dirt path up to the house is mulched and trimmed, stray branches cleared away. If Even looks closer, it’s all coming together.

“How long do you think it will take to finish?” Even asks as he catches his breath from the incline, holding the door open for Isak, who steps under his arm.

The inside is cool and dark now that the sun is directly overhead, unable to shine through the windows; the air from inside is a welcome relief, Even feels it first on his sun kissed cheeks. He watches Isak forget to answer after taking a step inside—watches him look up to the fresco, a canopy of green leaves and gold columns and red roses. He can see the flecks in his eyes copy the colors.

“You really did a lot while I was gone,” Isak half-whispers, charmingly surprised. “I hardly recognize it.” He looks over his shoulder back at Even, his expression sweet and soft. 

“Just the last part of the east wall now,” Even states with a little inflection, like it’s half a question, and Isak snaps back to attention. 

“Right,” he agrees. “Well, I talked to Sonja back in Oslo. She said we need to be out of here by Friday. So we can take our time.”

 _Take our time._ Even smiles at the phrase and pretends the same racing thoughts that’ve consumed him over the weekend may have been mutual. He leans against the front door after he closes it, bent arms behind him resting on his lower back. Isak turns around and focuses his attention fully on him, taking a step into his space. 

“Friday,” Even repeats to himself, like he’s trying to comprehend the countdown. “What are your plans for when you get back home?” He’s failing at being subtle. 

Isak shifts his eyebrows, one up one down. His confused face twists in a little self doubt, and he takes a nervous step forward—close enough for Even to reach out and touch him, back to that body language. 

Even takes him in—really looks at him. Remembers him across from him at the garden table, laughing over dinner. Remembers his sleepy, soft snores at night before the sun rises. Remembers him trying to wrangle in his excitement when he talks about scientific emulsions or philosophical paradoxes. Remembers him all over him, remembers how from then to now it feels like a rug has been tugged from under them; all of the delicate parts of them exposed with no base to stand on. 

And he remembers Eva’s advice: they can always backpedal. 

Remembers that Isak is not just some finite memory, standing in front of him. 

He’s someone Even can get to know over and over and over again. 

Maybe the question just caught him off guard. “Well,” Isak breathes, a little shaky—looking down and smiling at the tile, “I thought we’d—”

Even interrupts him with a missed kiss, rocking his feet to the tips and taking a step away from the door. He catches Isak on the corner of his mouth, holds his face to steady it before getting it right and letting their lips collide. 

_We’d—_

It’s really all he needs to hear. That the plans Isak makes back home still have him in them. 

They both smile so wide it’s hardly a kiss anymore—tight cheeks under fingers and teeth on teeth before they reign themselves in enough to pout their lips. When Even slides his open so their tongues can meet, they simultaneously sigh into it because it feels so nice. 

“Who’s Magnus?” Even asks, pulling away as Isak chases him.

“What?”

“Magnus,” Even clarifies again. “Who is he?”

Isak chuckles, kissing Even while he does so—he can feel the laugh hum against his lips. “Magnus is my friend from high school,” Isak snorts, amused. 

“Not your boyfriend?” Even sounds desperately relieved, but he doesn’t care. 

“No,” Isak laughs, shaking his head. “Not at all. Not even close. He’s just a friend.”

“Friend with benefits?” Even pushes, although he’s half kidding. 

“Were you worried?” Isak teases, tracing a finger down Even’s lips, over his neck and chest. “Of all my friends and then some, I’d bang him last.”

Even kisses him again, laughing through it—backing him up through the foyer to the bedroom—pausing a moment to kiss him under the roses.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say thank you if you made it to the end of this—I plan to write an epilogue, I just didn't have time to before the posting date. So stay tuned. ❤️
> 
> If you enjoyed this even a little bit I'd love to know! Please say hi to me on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) :)


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